Page 2 of Cardinal House

Something we never do.

Lie.

“What have I lied about?” I’m cautious and slow, and Thorne is still talking but I hear none of it. “Tell me. Talk to me, Rainey.”

“Don’t,” he spits, voice full of vitriol. “Do not call me that, only my brothers call me that.” He shakes his head, “Only she called me that,” he chokes out, bottom lip trembling. Arms fully extended, his gun on me, aimed at my chest with steadier hands now, “I’m not dealing with this anymore,” he breathes out shakily, bringing his hand up to his head, gun still aimed at me, he smacks the heel of his hand into his head. “You’re not there, you’re not there, you’re not there. She’s not fucking here!” he shouts.

“Raine.”

I don’t hear anything after I speak his name, just the scuffle of feet, my ears ringing even before I hear the boom. A gun firing. The phone in my fingers dropping to the ground. I watch in slow motion as it bounces on the tarmac, the screen shattering, little splinters of glass pinging across the ground.

My knees hit next, and it’s the first time I think I blink. Slow and fast all at once. I can’t get my arms out in front of me as I fall. The rough black surface scraping my cheek as air oomphs free from my chest, jaw bone crunching as my face connects with the ground. Grit and stones sharp against my flesh, my temple pounding as my skull ricochets off the tarmac.

Coldness washes through me, limbs like ice, my mouth is open and I taste dirt, copper thick in the back of my throat making me want to swallow, but it’s like my tongue is frozen, swollen, touching the roof of my mouth.

Time seems to warp, the world bending and curling around me as I sink into the gravelly surface beneath me, swaddled by it as even that goes soft. I can’t feel it anymore, nothing but the cold, which rips through me like ice, making me shake.

There’s pinching in my eyelid, trembling warmth against my cheek. A face I recognise draws level with mine, big dark eyes, sparkling and wet. I feel my lips moving, but nothing comes out, no sounds to my ears but high pitched humming, loud and constant, as though I’ve been to a basement metal gig and stood beside the speaker all night.

The man’s lips move too, fast and soundless, and my eyes close again, the warmth lost and I sink into the cold. Like shallow water welcoming me home, I let it take me under, an embrace from an old friend.

Death’s fingers curling into my soul and severing it gently from my spine.

Chapter 2

Luna

Night shifts are all the same in the trauma department.

Busy, loud, chaotic.

Tears and wails and grief are the soundtrack to my workdays. There is the thick scent of blood, like it’s taken up permanent residence inside of my nostrils. Then there’s the bleach, clinging to everything like death has disguised itself with the eye-watering scent, wrapping itself around this part of the hospital.

My white, rubber clogs are silent as I run down the wide corridor. Wheeling the resuscitation trolley back to emergency room two from five for the sixth time tonight. There've been two stabbings, both of which were fatal, and now I’m tearing back down the hall for the fourth gunshot wound, the three people before now in body bags beneath us in the morgue.

The success rate here is low.

Well, it is when I’m on shift.

That’s why the others call me those nasty names.

They think I’m a bad omen.

The double doors fly wide as I smash the metal trolley through the entrance. One of three doctors stuffing gauze inside the open chest wound of a large man as another grabs the defibrillator.

Everyone moves in a blur around me as I take several steps back, out of the way to let them work. I’m not a real nurse, I’m just a night shift healthcare assistant. I check blood pressures, take bloods, ask patients how they are feeling, dress wounds and check stitches. I’m also the person who does the clean up.

Once this room is finished with, I’ll be sprinkling a spill kit over the puddles of blood on the grey-speckled, white lino where it leaks from the body atop the gurney. I’ll be disposing of the bloodied couch roll, the gauze, needles, and sterilising various medical instruments.

I stare unseeingly ahead, my back to the doors, my eyes on the scene.

Chaos.

Sweat beads on my nape beneath my thick black hair coiled into a large bun at the base of my neck, rolling droplet by droplet down the pale curve of my spine beneath the dense fabric of my sky blue scrubs.

There are a dozen bodies in this room, the air thick with stress, the temperature hot with pants of quick breaths, but adrenaline keeps each of them moving, breathing, working.

I imagine what their hearts look like banging around erratically inside their chest cavities. How hard they hammer to force blood through their veins. They’re doctors, nurses, medical professionals that are used to this type of pressure, but I wish, not for the first time, that I could see beneath their skin.

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