Page 3 of Hospital for Immortal Creatures

“Be there at 11:23 a.m. Someone will need help.”

“Who? And what does this have to do with saving the immortals?”

“You will see.” She turned her back to him. “Now, go away, manticore. I must rest.”

Mikhail knew he would not get any more from her, so he returned to his lair on the twentieth floor, clutching the notebook with the address. The space he occupied offered a bed and a modest wardrobe, and it summed up everything he needed. All the rooms on the top floor of the Hospital were at his disposal, but he had not opened most of the doors in many years.

He lay down on the bed and stared at the slip of paper he had torn from the notebook.

He had built the Hospital in the 1850s – almost a hundred years after injuries, infections and blood loss had begun causing the deaths of immortal creatures. There were no diseases like diabetes or cancer in their world, but traumas were often far more malignant than the most aggressive carcinoma, and the signs of ageing were clear in all the creatures that had survived thus far. The gods were nevertheless merciful to them, Viktor would say, because regardless of the changes that occurred, their bodies were still much more resilient than human ones, and the ageing process was mild.

Mikhail did not worship any gods, either merciful or cruel, but he believed in resourceful enemies. From the beginning, he had suspected someone was behind it all; the Oracle had confirmed as much tonight.

The six immortal species suffered equally from the Changes, so he doubted that any of them had caused it – and anyway, what did they have to distribute and “redistribute”? Sure, the hatred between witches and nymphs was proverbial, lycanthropes and manticores had faced off against each other time and time again over the years, vampires often provoked ire with their overly frivolous behaviour among mortals, and most of the immortals still avoided necromancers on pure principle … But interspecies wars had not raged for a long time. Even the division of communities had become a thing of the past. While witch covens and vampiric tribes still existed in some parts of the world, most creatures considered such groups an anachronism.

A sudden urge to move had Mikhail walk to the window and gaze at the spacious courtyard of the Hospital. A ten-foot concrete fence wound around it, separating it from the mountain beyond and caging the lighted pathways which would come alive in the morning. The wind rustled the branches of the trees lining the lanes, the fountain in the middle lay dormant, and the two halves of the main gate were tightly shut. Everything appeared serene.

Unfortunately, ostensible calm always sharpened his senses, rather than dull them.

Mikhail scanned the invisible threads of magic that shielded the entire territory from human eyes. The Hospital was much more than a place where creatures received medical care. It was a fortress. A sanctuary to anyone in need.

Almost anyone.

The Oracle was mistaken about one thing. Mikhail had not attempted to save himself, for he knew it was a lost cause and he despised the thought of failure.

At 5 a.m., he took a cold shower, chose a small, compact car that wouldn’t attract attention from the garage, and drove away. As he sped off, he caught a glimpse in the rear-view mirror of the massive twenty-storey Hospital with its two wings spreading in opposite directions and dozens of tall windows shining like beacons in the mountain night – for those who could see them.

2

The last three hundred feet were always the toughest. The most challenging. Halfway through, stopping would be an option, but so close to the finish line, quitting was unacceptable.

The cold air whispered in Amelia’s ear like a commentator counting down the last seconds.

Three hundred feet… two hundred… one hundred…

She forgot all about proper breathing.

Seventy… sixty…

A new gust of wind tried to sway her from the path.

Fifty… forty… thirty…

Stopping would feel good right now. It would work well to solidify her misery. That thought brought her a sense of masochistic pleasure. She wasn’t sure what would hurt less –digging her heels in the ground or finishing her run.

Twenty…

Amelia crossed the finish line. Hurray! Nobody applauded, because nobody was watching. It was just her and the constant need to race against herself, something she had been doing every morning in South Park for the last three years.

She held her breath despite her body’s desperate demand for fresh air. Could she die like this? She counted down the seconds – one, two, three…

What was wrong with her, for heaven’s sake? Counting shit all the time?

The unconscious will to live prevailed over her suicidal thoughts, and Amelia began breathing again. The first gulp of air burned through her lungs like coal, forcing her to cough. She wanted to spit, but no, that wouldn’t be proper. If her mother was looking down on her, she would disapprove.

The leaves above her head rustled and caught her attention. A shiny black crow was perched atop a leafless branch.

Black crows portend death, her grandmother used to say.

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