Page 47 of Dance With Death

A mental no from Rowan crashes into my mind.

I ignore his intrusion. Two morgues exist in the vicinity. Which one do I visit? Would authorities take the shifter to the police station’s or hospital’s morgue?

Another loud telepathic no.

“Stop that. You’re giving me a headache, Rowan,” I inform him.

“And I don’t want you to give me one.”

Leif’s brow dips as he looks between us, and suspicion crosses the detectives’ faces.

More voices in the hallway. I lean backward again, this time catching sight of a couple standing by the elevator, the tall slender man’s arm around the short woman’s shoulders. The woman’s curly auburn hair leaves me no doubt that these people are Holly’s parents.

I summon every ounce of self-control to not approach the pair, something aided by the elevator doors sliding open and the couple stepping inside. They turn and my mouth dries at the woman’s puffy face and reddened eyes.

Definitely a bad idea to talk to them now. I’ll unwittingly say something wrong, and I’d like to not put an immediate wedge between us.

I step back inside the room as one of the nurses approaches, her rubber soles squeaking on the tiles. “You can visit Holly now,” she says to the detectives, not us. “I’ll also be in the room checking her vitals, so no funny business.”

“I assure you there’s nothing vaguely amusing about this business,” I retort to the back of her head as she turns to lead us away.

As I walk beside her, Rowan speaks to one of the detectives behind us. “I’ve explained to you why Violet wasn’t with me. Don’t ask again if she’s around.” Rowan whispers the words, feigning that he doesn’t want me to hear.

Once the detectives inform Mrs. Lorcan, the whole academy will know about the attack on Holly, and news will soon reach the town’s ears. We couldn’t find Marci to straighten our alibi this morning. With any luck, she’s either worried about what we’ll say about her illegal sales or is currently unaware of what unfolded with Holly last night.

Either way, Marci will not escape me for long, and will say nothing if she’s sensible.

Death I can cope with. The scene in this room? No.

The evening that I visited the hospital’s purgatory-like ER disturbed me more than any mortuary could. Due to my recent changes, I can detect the human misery and pain oozing from the walls in this hellish place. Thanks for the genetics, Eloise.

The ER room only contained everyday human items. Chairs. Vending machines. Children’s strollers and wheelchairs. This room contains instruments of nightmares, and I’m gripped by the newly familiar, physically overwhelming, revulsion.

Is this the human equivalent of magic? Tubes feed potions into holes in Holly’s skin, another pushes oxygen inside her nostrils. Machines. Sterility. Holly’s presence usually imbues a room with light and life, compared to the death I bring. That life has faded. My friend isn’t dead, but the girl in this bed isn’t Holly.

I want to approach, but I don’t for two reasons. One, the detectives watch my every move and response like hungry hawks. Two, I’m a necromancer. Death energy always hovers in the space around necromancers, the aura more tangible in some such as Viktor, but less detectable in others. What if mine infects Holly somehow and sucks more life from her?

Viktor.

Is he to blame for snuffing out Holly’s light and drawing away all her color until she’s paler than Grayson? Shifters attempted to kill Holly, but I know by now that wherever murderous constructs exist, the twisted necromancer Viktor lurks in their background.

This isn’t my reality. A human hospital was never part of my world, and never should’ve been. I truly expected Viktor to play a longer game. To taunt me. But, in the end, he chose a swift and violent way to finish this personal war between us.

Viktor failed. Holly survived. Either the witch made a mistake, or he’s learned that creating and using constructs doesn’t always work out as he’d hoped. Didn’t he say so himself? I’ve yet to discover which constructs he’s responsible for; Viktor is definitely working with other necromancers because the dead witch Maxwell created Oz, and we’re unsure who created Rory.

Leif places the cellophane-wrapped flowers on a white cabinet close to the head of Holly’s bed, below the contraption feeding something into Holly’s hand. I’m transfixed by curiosity and shock.

“Violet,” he whispers and nods at my jacket.

I stare at him blankly until the memory of another numb moment returns. I pull from my pocket the item he suggested that I bring and hold it out to Leif: the small plush pig that Holly always places on her pillow when she makes her bed.

Holly and the room should smell like this pig, not the chemical smell that coats my nostrils. Her familiar fragrance lingers on the soft toy—a perfume she once offered me to try because I “needed some”. At first, I was affronted at the implication that I smelled unpleasant, until I saw the name on the bottle.

Happy.

How ludicrous that you can buy happiness in a bottle, however fake.

The pink pig is tiny in Leif’s spade-like hands, and he places it beside the bouquet. The nurse checking the machines pauses and smiles, then takes the bouquet to a nearby sink.

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