Shapeshifted

Then we closed the place, and Hector locked the doors behind him.



He walked me back to the station. “You should put some Neosporin on that. And change the bandage frequently.”



“I am a nurse, remember?” I said. He gave me a look that made it clear that this afternoon, I’d crossed the line. “Okay, okay, I will. And I’ll wash your shirt, and bring it back to you.”



“Don’t worry about it. Just get better. You should call me if anything changes.” He patted himself down and found a business card inside one pocket. He handed it to me.



I’d gotten phone numbers in less romantic ways, barely. I grimaced and took it from him.



* * *



It was only five by the time I got home, but I was exhausted. Between two days of painting, and then my hunchbacked trip through the storm drains, I had more problems than just my neck.



I took a long shower, and every drop of water that hit or trailed down my neck wound stung. I fought to stand there, scrubbing away the rest of the grime, going through what felt like half a bar of soap.



After that I slathered Neosporin on my neck, gauzed it up with supplies swiped from my last job, and crawled back into bed to take a short nap. I set my alarm clock and everything.



When I woke up Minnie was purring by my side. I petted her while I woke up, like always—and realized it was dark. I could have kicked myself. All that effort to get on a day schedule, and here I would be up all night.



Worse yet—I’d missed dinner with Mom. Shit. Shit shit shit.



I looked at my phone. It was ten o’clock. Too late to call. Of course, she’d called me, and sent a worried text message. I checked the volume on my phone. It was up. I’d slept right through her calls too. Should I text? Text Peter? Or what? Shit!



I sent an email, hoping one of them would check it in the morning. They’d be up for church; maybe they’d check their emails before that, or after? I could call at nine. I didn’t think my mom was in any shape to leave the house, but I knew if she couldn’t leave she’d watch one of those sermons on TV.



I had limited mother–daughter time left in my life, unless I managed to shake down a vampire—one that didn’t want to kill me, which meant Dren was out. Fuck.



And my neck still hurt. Goddammit. I got up and stumbled over to the bathroom. I tripped and stubbed my toes.



Fucking fuck fuck!



Maybe if I stopped cursing at God, he’d treat me better. Then again, a fair God wouldn’t be offing my mother with breast cancer, now would he?



I sighed and sank down onto the floor of my bathroom rather than face myself in the mirror again. My neck burned—and so did my pride. What was I doing? I was chasing the hope of healing my mother like it was some kind of frantic butterfly. Anytime I thought I got close enough to try to catch an answer, my hands wound up empty again—or worse yet, my dreams were smashed inside.



Maybe I should just quit the job at the clinic and spend what little time was left with her. No one could blame me if I did. I could move back in for a little bit. She and Peter had turned my old room into a guest bedroom. I knew they still had my old bed.



I hauled myself up by the edge of my sink.



I leaned on my sink and tugged the tape off my neck dressing with my free hand. The gauze slid away, colored with the yellow of purulent drainage, and the claw marks were red and oozing. “Ugh.” And now that I was standing—I did not feel well. Or look well, by the dim bathroom light. I was still sore from earlier today, I’d slept wrong, and now I was fighting off this infection too.



I had faith in my nurse’s immune system—I couldn’t count how many times I’d picked up something at the hospital and felt sick going home, only to wake up the next morning well. Plus, the only emergency room I could think to go to in the middle of the night would be County, and damned if I’d end up there. I tied up my hair, hissing as raising my arms above my head made my neck hurt, and got back into the shower.



I couldn’t rinse my neck off directly—it hurt too badly for that—but I held my head so that it’d catch all the water running down, and tried to dab at myself with a soapy washcloth. I dried myself off, regauzed my wound, and stumbled back to bed, where I dry-swallowed an Ambien. My last memory was of it being bitter on my tongue as it made its way down.



CHAPTER TWENTY



Thump thump thump.



What what what?



I blinked in bed. If Jorgen was back here to eat Minnie, I was going to punch him.



All my covers were tossed off the bed. I sat up as the thumping continued. Who did that? Why? Who unmade my bed? Jerks.



Thump.



“Go away!”



Thump-more-thump.



Shit.



“I have neighbors, you know. I’ll call the police.”



I scrabbled for my phone, watched the numbers on the screen flicker and dance. Stupid numbers. Always betraying me.



The thumping kept going on. Was it coming from inside me? I looked down at myself, and oh-my-God my neck burned. Maybe it was my neck knocking. Telling me something. I sat on the edge of my bed.



“What? Go!”



I heard talking, outside, as though someone was answering me.



Not Jorgen then. Unless he’d learned how to talk. Had he learned how to talk? I tried to imagine him talking, and saw a comical dog in my mind, one with a tweed coat and a smoking pipe. I snickered at this, and the thumping began again.



“Whatever!” I stood up, naked, and picked up my robe off the floor. I walked down the hall to my front door and swung it open.



Hector was standing outside.



“Why’re you here?” I asked him.



“The more I thought about it, the more I was worried about you. No telling what diseases that old woman had.”



I squinted at him, choosing the version of him I thought was really him, and not the shadows the porch light made him shoot off to either side. It was hard; there were a lot of him to choose from. “How do you know where I live?”



“You did fill out some forms when I hired you. Can I come inside?”



Nervous laughter spilled out of my mouth like a river. “No. I mean yes. Wait. No.”



Who was this person talking? Not me. I pressed my hand against my hallway wall. The cross there, it was cold, it felt so good. I took it off the wall and held it against my chest.



“Are you okay, Edie?”



“I’m fine. I’ve always been fine, and I’m going to always keep being fine.”



He looked doubtful. “You don’t look so fine. Can I come in?”



I leaned forward and put a finger on his chest. “Are you a vampire?” I had seen him in the daylight, but who knew?



“No. I wish you’d get over your vampire delusions.”



“You would be deluded too if you were me!” My voice rose, and I realized I was shouting. Neighbors, dammit, neighbors! I lowered my voice to hiss, “You’d be looking for a lot of excuses to delude yourself, if you were me.”



He took my hand, and pushed me gently back. More like he was holding me upright. “I thought you said you were fine?”



“Dammit.” I took a step back, and the hallway tilted, sending me spilling to the side. I hit the wall with my shoulder. It reverberated up to my neck, and I hurt so bad I wanted to cry. “Here, hold this.” I handed the cross to him, this one made of real silver. If he touched it, I’d be safe.



He took it, and took a step inside. “Edie—you look really bad.” He reached his hand out and touched my forehead. His hand was nice and cool. Maybe it’d taken all the chill from the cross and channeled it into me. I reached up and pressed his hand tighter against my forehead.



“You’re hot. You should sit down.” Fully inside my house now, he took my shoulders and directed me toward my couch.



“I’m totally, utterly okay,” I said, letting him push me down. “Can I have your hand again?” Looking at me strangely, he offered it over, and I pressed it to my face again. “This is a good hand. I like this hand.”



“Okay. Edie. You need to calm down. Wait here, okay?” He freed himself, closed my door, and went down my hall. I was there for an hour or twelve, but then he came back and handed me a wet washcloth.



“What were you doing with my cat?”



“Edie. You’re sick.”



“No I’m not.” I would totally shake my head to tell him no, only my neck hurt so so bad.



“Yeah, you are.” He reached into his phone for a pocket. Or the other way around. “We need to get you some help.”



“Fine.” I was tired. Now that I was sitting down again, the sleepiness was taking me.



He smiled at me, a warm light in his eyes. “See? You’re still fine.”



“I’m not sick.” I looked up, petulant as any child fighting sleep. “I hate you.”



“You are sick. I know you don’t hate me.” He held his pocket to his ear.



I remember saying, “Don’t tell Olympio anything,” and then I thought I was going to pass out.



I’m pretty sure I did.



CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE



Wherever I was when I woke up, it smelled like smoke—not like cigarette smoke, but like hippie smoke, herbal stuff, and pipe tobacco. A dim lightbulb hung overhead. The ceiling was dingy, stained yellow with smoke and neglect, the walls mostly hidden by colorful banners with phrases in Spanish. I recognized the names of a few saints, and there were posters for soccer tournaments from 1973. There were statues on a cheap table at the back of the room, skeletons wrapped in robes and holding scales and scythes, like the background of a pretentious metal album. Something crinkled beneath me as I moved my head—and sitting up, I realized I’d been lying on tinfoil.



“What the—where—” I patted at my pockets, looking for my phone. My mom. I had to call my mom—but the last things I remembered didn’t involve putting on pants.



“El durmiente despierta,” said a voice in Spanish. A man I didn’t recognize was watching me. He was smoking a pipe, sitting among the statues, and the light in here was so dim I’d thought he was one. He had one whole leg and one that jutted out and ended, amputated at the knee; a crutch leaned on either side of his chair.