“She turned into a demon.”
“Exactly. And it happened when her Shadowed stat reached 100%. Here’s the deal, Chen. Devon’s gone after Owen, but it’s not as we planned. I thought I’d have a chance to prepare her. Right now, she’s blind. I don’t know how she’ll manage to find the demon Owen inhabits and figure out that your old guildmate is inside. Unless she has this tracker.” He pulled out the bracelet. “Unfortunately, the only way to get it to her is to enter the demonic plane.”
Chen nodded. “I get it. You need me to go after her. Okay.”
Emerson held this tongue until the boy met his eyes. “We sent Devon because she resisted the demon before. Even so, it was a difficult choice to approach her about the mission. There are real consequences to the transformation. You’ll have to hold tight to your identity because those flashes of rage or despondency you feel now are nothing compared to what Zaa will try to make of you.”
“I think it will be easier now that I understand what’s happening,” Chen said, though he sounded somewhat unsure.
Emerson nodded. “That’s probably true. But I’ve been speaking with the psychologists from the implant company, and there’s one thing that can help you more than anything else. You need an anchor for your real identity. Something or someone that you feel in your deepest soul the need to return to.”
Chen stood so suddenly that his chair nearly toppled. “Easy. Mei. She’ll be back the week after Christmas. And I’ll be there for her.”
“So you think you can do it?”
“There’s little I can do for my sister at the moment, but it sounds like I can help Devon and Owen right now. Of course I’ll do it.”
Emerson stood, plucked the demon stone from the table, and held it out to Chen. He slipped Devon’s tracking ring onto his finger, and a map overlay came up showing the overland geography of Veia’s realm. North of Ishildar and across the mountains near Eltera City, a red dot blinked. That was the closest spot within the physical realm to Devon’s location in the hell plane.
After fumbling through the interface for a while, he found the option to invite Chen to a group. Once the teenager had joined, Emerson pulled up the GM interface and selected the teleport command. Only once they’d begun to dematerialize did he think to say goodbye to the medicine woman.
Too late. Hopefully she would forgive him.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
CYNTHIA STOPPED HERSELF from asking the nurse, Noah, whether he was really okay with meeting her at this ridiculous hour. After warning her of Owen’s family’s plans, he’d given her his messenger handle in case he could help. But he probably hadn’t expected her to drop a line at midnight with a request to meet a couple of hours later.
The warming trays and hot lamps in the hospital cafeteria had long since been shut down. Like in every institution cafeteria she remembered visiting, the overhead light bars shone down with a Kelvin rating that seemed just short of ultraviolet. Did the designers intend to make the food even less palatable, thereby assuring that none of the staff overate? Or was it to make sure no one fell asleep with their face in a pile of mashed potatoes?
As Noah punched in the row and column on the vending machine and watched a pastry pie march forward, urged by the rotating spiral wire toward the looming cliff, Cynthia yawned. Her eyes were full of sand, and her limbs ached. But as soon as this was done, she could take a short nap. That is, if she could fall asleep.
Her handbag dragged heavily at her shoulder. She knew that someone would have a case against her after this. Frank Galavis could probably tell her which laws she would be breaking, but she hadn’t asked. Even if it made her look like a country bumpkin, ignorance seemed better in this case.
For the same reason, she hadn’t told Noah the details of her plan. And he hadn’t asked, probably having sensed the danger.
“Can I treat you to something?” he asked, exposing his wrist and the lump of the RFID tag beneath the skin. “I almost never use up my meals allowance.”
“You call that a meal?” Cynthia said with a smirk as she glanced at the packaged pastry.
The nurse laughed, the sound loud in the dead of the 2 AM hospital. “I should hope that no one considers it that. But accounting doesn’t care whether I order a ham sandwich from the counter or food substitutes from the vending machines.”
“Ham sandwiches, huh? Real meat?”
He grimaced. “That’s questionable. Anyway, my wife has made it her mission to help me eat healthier. You think it would be the other way around seeing as I care for sick people day in and day out, but she’s the one who follows nutrition gurus and recipe mavens online. She usually sends me with a sack lunch.”
The reminder that this man had a family tugged at her heart. She swallowed, vowing to insulate him from her actions. “So the shift changes in a quarter hour?” she asked, delivering a gentle reminder that they were on a timetable.
He glanced at the analog clock on the wall and nodded. Tearing open the package, he broke off a piece of the pastry, the sugarcoated shell coming off in big plates and releasing alarmingly red filling to slide down into the package.
Noah popped the pastry pieces into his mouth and sucked filling off his fingers. “Sorry, he said with a shrug. “Not the neatest snack.”
“Given the help you’re giving me, I’d be okay if you ordered a plate of spaghetti and ate it with your hands.”
They’d started walking and had turned toward the bank of elevators nearest the cafeteria. Cynthia knew the way by heart, but she trailed a pace behind Noah. Access to all but the first floor was restricted outside of visiting hours. She needed his keycard to get anywhere.
Of course, his access would be logged. But when Cynthia used her gathered information as leverage, there’d be no reason for the logs to be checked. As far as the hospital or the governor would know, she could have planted the recording devices during any of her earlier visits. It just happened that she hadn’t come up with the idea until it was too late.
On Owen’s floor, the elevator door shushed open on a hallway that smelled of cleanser. Noah stuck his head into the corridor and looked both ways before motioning her forward. Rather than heading toward Owen’s room—and the nursing station a few paces away—they turned for the lounge at the opposite end of the wing. The timing needed to be right. Each floor was staffed by two nurses working staggered eight-hour shifts. At shift change, when just one of the nurses would be heading home for the day, his or her replacement would be briefed on any patient incidents from the previous four hours.
The system was all part of the protocol for catching human errors in the hospital setting, but according to Noah, most of the staff took it less seriously than they ought to. He planned to provide a distraction while the station hand-off occurred. Especially at night, when the empty halls lent the sense that the staff members were the only humans awake in the city, a little conversation kept the mood from turning too lonely.
She hoped he was right about the other nurse’s inattention, because she hated exposing him.
“How much time do you need in the room?” he asked quietly as they took seats in the lounge. The story they’d worked out so far was that if anyone happened upon them, she was a visiting administrator tasked with reviewing compliance on nighttime staffing levels. Given her work in a similar capacity with a pharmaceutical company, it wasn’t a huge stretch. Of course, she’d have to hope that whoever discovered her didn’t recognize her from other visits…in that case she’d have to think fast.
“I’ll only be in the room for a couple of minutes. Tops.”
He nodded, crossed his legs, and bounced his foot in the air as silence fell. Cynthia wondered if he often worked nights, moving through these silent corridors under too-bright lights.
Noah checked his watch. “Time,” he said as he stood. “Just give me a minute, okay? If I’m still standing on the outside of the counter when you approach, I don’t have their attention. Back off, a
nd we’ll try again at six.”
Cynthia clenched her fists. Six might be too late. Visiting hours started at seven, and she wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Governor Calhoun had managed to secure permission to enter beforehand. He wouldn’t want a member of the public to see him abducting his own son, after all.
Yeah. Six was definitely too late. Nonetheless, she didn’t want to put extra pressure on Noah. The other nurses might pick up on his nervousness. She nodded. “Got it.”
Noah shuffled down the hall, hands brushing the loose pants of his scrubs when he swung his arms. As he turned toward the nurses’ station, he started to whistle. She knew he’d reached the counter when the shrill tune was replaced by voices. She couldn’t make out the words, but she heard laughter.
Go time. Standing, Cynthia tucked her purse tight against her body. She’d worn flats with soft rubber soles so that her footsteps lacked the customary click of the low heels she wore to work. As her feet whispered across the floor, she kept her ear cocked. At the corner, she slowed peered down the next hallway.
Noah was still leaning against the counter.
Shit. Something wasn’t right. Either he didn’t have their attention, or there was another reason for his signal.
Cynthia took a step back, throat clamping over her breath.
Aside from entering the hallway at the far end—by climbing up the fire escape and somehow forcing the emergency exit—the only way to reach Owen’s room went past the counter.
Could she crawl past? No. Being spotted in the corridor was one thing—she might be able to explain her way out of it. She wouldn’t be able to concoct an excuse if she were caught crawling toward Owen’s room.
What could have gone wrong? Maybe Owen’s family had requested extra security. Maybe Noah had misjudged his ability to distract the other nurses. She just couldn’t know.
What she did know was that this was her last chance. Whatever the consequences, she wouldn’t let Owen’s father doom her beloved without fighting her hardest.
Straightening her shoulders, she stepped around the corner and advanced toward Noah. His eyes widened, and an almost imperceptible shake of his head told her it wasn’t clear. She would apologize later. Profusely. But this had to be done.
As if trying to shield her from the other nurses’ eyes, Noah sidestepped. His motion blocked her view of the interior of the station. Maybe he even thought he could coordinate his motion with hers to keep the others from noticing her.
To spare him the effort, Cynthia cleared her throat.
Noah’s shoulders slumped.
“Excuse me? What in the hell is she doing here?”
Cynthia stopped short at the sound of the familiar voice. Erupting from his shirt collar, Governor Calhoun’s head and neck looked like an exploding warhead. Behind him, Owen’s mother stood meekly, her eyes downcast. The woman clutched her purse strap like a lifeline.
Behind the pair stood Peter, the campaign aide responsible for this plan to sacrifice Owen on the altar of politics.
At that moment, Cynthia couldn’t decide who she felt the most disdain for. The egotistical governor who would put his career and need for power above his own family? The sycophant aide who clung to the governor, likely imagining he would share in the governor’s gains? Or Mrs. Calhoun, the weak-willed mother who had so little strength of her own that she would allow her husband to do this to her son?
Cynthia felt her lip twitch in disgust. With chin raised, she stalked forward.
And, slipping a hand into her purse, she palmed the small recording device. As she pulled it out, she pointed the tiny fisheye lens at Owen’s family.
“Miss, this area of the hospital is closed outside of visiting hours. Care to explain how you gained access?”
One of the nurses, a beefy man with bushy eyebrows stood from the desk. Cynthia could read his stress in the tenseness of his jaw. She stifled the urge to snap at him—having the governor of the state of Georgia physically intruding on his workspace was probably more than unnerving.
“I came because someone needs to stop this.” Cynthia deliberately avoided answering the question as to how she’d accessed the hallway—her mind was still whirling on that. “Owen deserves better than what you people intend.”
“How dare you!” Governor Calhoun roared. “Owen is my son. He’s been comatose for weeks, and the hospital claims they can do nothing. I’m taking him home so that—even if he never wakes—he’ll be in the house he was raised in, surrounded by people that love him.”
“Oh, so it’s not just a political stunt?” Cynthia said. “You aren’t doing this because the leader of the opposition field is already matching you in the polls? I mean, that must be difficult to handle seeing as she hasn’t even secured a spot with a primary. It must make you feel like a failure.”
Through this, Cynthia kept an eye on Owen’s mother. She watched for some sort of indication—even the slightest hint—that the woman protested the idea of using Owen this way. Owen’s mother’s eyes seemed glued to her feet.
“Call security,” said the aide, Peter.
The other on-shift nurse, a woman with hair pulled in a tight bun and lipstick that looked purple under the glare of the lightbars, picked up the phone. Noah laid a hand on hers and shook his head.
“I’ll go down to the security desk and fetch them. Better if Governor Calhoun’s situation isn’t broadcast over the PA in their station.”
Cynthia’s breath shook when she exhaled. He was trying to buy her some time. As he stepped away from the counter, turning so that the front pocket—and the ID card clamped to it—were out of view of the people inside the station, the idea came to her in a flash. Cynthia waited until he’d stalked past her, his gaze hard to read, then turned and chased him down.
“Sir?” she said, tapping him on the shoulder.
Noah slowed and looked at her questioningly.
“I’m really sorry,” she said. “But I don’t want you to take the blame for what I did. Do you remember when I bumped into you downstairs?”
He cocked his head, obviously confused. But he seemed willing to go along with whatever she was trying. “You spilled my coffee.”
“Just as you’d stepped into the elevator, this came unclipped from your shirt pocket. I used it to access this floor.” Pulling her work ID card, of a size and shape nearly identical to the access cards used by the hospital, she pressed it into his hand. Fortunately, personal privacy laws kept the large institutions from requiring employees to implant or register wrist RFIDs. Access cards might seem archaic, but if you were fired or laid off, you weren’t leaving the most sensitive of personal information in your employer’s databases.
Not that it mattered, really, when almost everyone gave out the same information to half the consumer sites on the Internet. Regardless, as long as the Calhouns hadn’t noticed the similar card already pinned to Noah’s shirt, the ploy would probably spare him any disciplinary action.
Noah caught on quick and put an edge into his voice as he shook his head. “Unbelievable,” he said. “The rules are here for the patients, not for our benefit.”
“If security wonders how you took an up elevator twice in a row, I will explain my actions. My name is Cynthia Cullen. All my contact info is in the visitor’s log. I’ve been on Owen Calhoun’s visitor list since the beginning.”
With a curt nod, the man stomped off. Cynthia swallowed. She hoped her performance would be enough to get him off the hook.
The squeal of metal in need of oil brought her around to face the nurses’ station and Owen’s room beyond it.
Cynthia froze. She felt sick when she saw a nurse backing out of the room pulling a gurney. Lying on the small bed, Owen looked even frailer than she remembered. His eyelids seemed almost translucent, and beneath the lids, his eyes roved back and forth as if in a dream.
She’d assumed Owen’s parents were here to lay the groundwork for an early morning relocation, not
to take Owen away. Not now.
Ignoring the governor and his wife, Cynthia ran forward. She planted herself in the center of the hallway, making it difficult for the orderly to get past.
“I overheard your plan,” she said, “This isn’t about bringing Owen home. You intend to blame his condition on the video game he played and the implants he’s installed. It’s about politics.”
“This is outrageous,” Peter said as he stepped in front of the governor. “Who is this, Mr. Governor?”
“She’s my son’s girlfriend,” Governor Calhoun said in a low and venomous voice. “Obviously, we’ve never approved of the match.”
Cynthia narrowed her eyes. She wasn’t going to get distracted by this. Late in the evening, she’d re-listened to the recording she’d made for Owen on the day she’d overheard his father and Peter talking. The audio was poor, the words muddled and often drowned by air conditioning and the beeping of machines.
Alone, it wouldn’t be enough to prove the governor’s guilt. But if she could just get him to acknowledge the plan on camera, she’d have the leverage she needed.
“Your opinion of me doesn’t matter,” she said. “All I care about is Owen. And I won’t let you take him away when his best chance of recovery is here. Under the care of some of the best doctors and nurses in the country.” She believed the compliment, and she also figured that it couldn’t hurt for the staff to know her feelings.
Finally, Owen’s mother looked up. A tragic mask had settled over her face. “How dare you? My son is probably never coming back to me. We only wish to take him home, possibly to die in peace, and you have the gall to accuse us. Have you ever had a child? Have you ever known what it is like to get the phone call that says your son has been taken to the hospital?”
Cynthia locked eyes with a woman. Did she actually believe that? Examining the woman’s face, Cynthia was inclined to think she did. A drop of pity joined the rage boiling in Cynthia’s thoughts. She couldn’t imagine the misery of being married to a liar like the governor.
Citadel of Smoke: A LitRPG and GameLit Adventure (Stonehaven League Book 4) Page 29