Cassie Alexander: Shapeshifted

I tried the handle and stepped out, keeping the door open with my foot. I looked around the room until I was confident I’d seen it all and gave the janitor a shy wave for interrupting him.

The old woman was gone. Damn.

Was Santa Muerte an actual saint to that woman? Or a personal friend? A concept—or an entity? I wished she was still around to ask, or that the Shadows’ request had been more specific. They could have at least given me a Wheel of Fortune clue. If finding Santa Muerte—the person, place, or thing—would make them heal my mom, then somehow I would. I quietly walked back down the hall to Dr. Tovar’s office to wait for him.

It took an hour for him to finish up, which I used to confirm that the medical books on the shelves were actually old. Not spirits and humours old, but close. I hoped they weren’t using them for modern medical advice.

I touched the skin on my shoulder where his coat had scratched against it. Hard to believe that the man who’d been dismissing me so analytically this morning was that passionate about saving his patients. And yet— There was a cough from the hallway outside that let me know I’d been caught snooping.

“Sorry. I’m naturally curious.” I stepped back around the desk as Dr. Tovar came in. “What was all that about?” I asked, making guns with my thumbs and forefingers, and shooting them at the wall.

“Turf wars.” He looked like he didn’t know how to explain it to me. He was angry still, but holding it in. I could almost see it surge underneath his skin. If he’d been a were, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see him change. He sat down, exterior calm, and I did the same. “It’s an election year. The current mayor’s cracking down on crime at the edges of our side of town. Less space, more pressure. It’s like putting the lid on a boiling pot.”

“Do people come here like that often?” I turned one of my imaginary handguns to shoot my own shoulder.

“Often enough.”

“And you don’t call for outside help?” Might as well be fearless about questions; I’d already been unhired for the day.

“There’s a reason they don’t call nine-one-one, you know.” The anger in his face relaxed to make his dark eyes look weary instead.

“What if that’d been worse?”

“Then I’d call. We’re a clinic, not an emergency department. I wouldn’t let him die over his or my pride.” He shrugged. “Do you bring gloves everywhere you go?”

I nodded. “Hand sanitizer too. The world’s a disgusting place.”

He agreed with a snort, and appeared to be studying the top of his desk, thinking hard.

“Who is Maldonado?” I asked him.

The question made him glance up at me. He began shaking his head, frowning deeply. “You saw things you shouldn’t have today, Nurse Spence.”

While I might not have heard that particular line before, boy, had I heard others just like it. I held my breath.

“I suppose you think I have to hire you now. Or you’ll tell people how I run things down here.”

While I might not have been above blackmail for a good reason, getting a job was not one of them. “No. I don’t think that at all. I’m not judging you in the least.” His eyes narrowed as I went on. “I’ve had to work at some … interesting places before. Ones I couldn’t really put on my résumé.”

His eyebrows rose. “Being a witness to attempted murder doesn’t put you off?”

If he only knew the kinds of secrets I’d had to keep. “Without going into details—trust me. I’ve seen worse.”

He tilted his head forward. “That’s funny. You look like the kind of person who goes talking to police.”

“I’m confused—do you want me to be incredibly honorable and report you to authorities and not get hired? Or do you want me to be useful, morally hazy, and gainfully employed? Because personally I like the one where I wind up with a job.”

At my protest, his face had the smallest flicker of a smile. “You do seem to understand some of our natural expediencies, and actually have basic nursing skills. Those things might be more valuable to me than you speaking Spanish, the way our summer’s going so far.”

I squinted at him. “Are you offering to hire me?”

“Yes. If you want it, against my better judgment, the job’s yours.”

This was what I’d wanted, right? But now—like so many other times before—it wasn’t how I’d wanted it. Still, this place was my only link to Santa Muerte, whoever or whatever she may be.

“Oh, so now you’re wise enough to be scared?” he asked, sounding smug.

How could I even answer that? “I want the job.”

“See you tomorrow then. At eight A.M.,” he said, and pointed toward the door.

I nodded. I was halfway down the hall when I realized he’d never given me an answer about Maldonado.

The waiting room was still empty when I reached it, although the janitor was done. Maybe that woman would be back tomorrow. She’d called out to Santa Muerte like she knew her personally—in prayer, no less. Rosary and all.

Praying while using a rosary smacked of comfortable familiarity. If even one person knew of a Santa Muerte, no matter who or what that was, there were bound to be others. I’d just have to find them.

The same early-teens kid from before blocked my path. “Oh, lady, you still need a limpieza . Bad. I have the don, I can tell.”

“How can I need that if I don’t even know what that is?” There was drying blood on the ground outside too, slightly darker than the rest of the surrounding stains on the cement. I wondered if the janitor had even tried to clean it up out here.

“My grandfather, Don Pedrito, he can heal you.” He patted his chest with authority.

“Look.” He was thin, rail-thin, with wrists that my hands could wrap around, the fingers meeting and then some. “I don’t have any money. But tomorrow I’ll be here. I’ll bring you a sandwich.”

He pulled his head back as though he’d been hit. “I don’t need your charity!”

“And I don’t need your limp-pizza. Whatever the hell that is.” I stepped around the blood on the ground.

“You’ll need it eventually. You have a curse on you. You’ll see.”

“Maybe tomorrow. But not tonight.”

He heaved a sigh and glared at me. I shrugged and walked around him, and then walked the two blocks back to the train station in the daylight. I wasn’t scared in the crowd anymore. I felt alive.

And when I got home I called up the sleep clinic to officially quit.

I felt substantially less alive at six thirty the next morning. I’d gone to sleep easily enough, thanks again to Ambien. But six thirty was early enough to make me feel frail. I got out of bed like the floor might roll away from me, then stumbled up to make coffee, take a shower, and head out the door. I remembered to make a sandwich for myself before I left, and an extra sandwich for that kid too. I could eat it later if I didn’t see him again.

I was tempted to call my mom from the train, to make plans to see her tonight, but I didn’t know what her sleep schedule was like. I made a mental note to call her later.

The ride felt different today. The train shook back and forth on the rails, the early-morning light strobing through the windows, looking like the beginning of an old-time film reel. I reached the right station at seven forty-five A.M. and descended the stairs.

“This phone’s mine, move your damn blanket over!” This morning I noticed a row of pay phones, long since missing their earpieces, and surely free of dimes. They now provided the backbone for a cardboard shelter where two homeless people were arguing over the edges of their blankets.