J.R. Ward: Rapture

Subtext: Get off my back, wouldja. I got work to do.

Cursing quietly, Mels scribbled on the line, took the two slips of paper and the copy that was hers, and then Nurse Ratched went on to terrorize the next patient.

What a night. The good news was at least the police had called it an accident, recognizing that she hadn’t been negligent or under the influence. But there were still problems…

Glancing down at her ticket to leave, she scanned the notes. Mild concussion. Neck strain. Follow up with her primary care in a week, or earlier if double vision, nausea, dizziness, worsening headache presented.

Her car was probably totaled.

There was no way that man was alive.

With a groan, she sat up from the pillows, and her bandaged head registered the vertical shift with a ballerina spin. As she gave things time to settle, she eyed her clothes on the orange plastic chair across the way. She’d gotten to keep her camisole, bra and her slacks on during her examinations. Blouse, jacket, and coat were just waiting to be put back into service.

She hadn’t called her mother.

The family had already been through one automobile accident—and in that case, the person who hadn’t lived through things had been her father.

So, yeah, she’d just texted and said she was going out with friends and would be home late. The last thing she needed was her mother upset and insisting on picking her up, especially given what she wanted to do now.

Mels took the whole getting-dressed effort slowly, although the foot drag wasn’t just about being a good little patient. Evidently her shot at being a crash-test dummy wasn’t the kind of thing you could brush off. She felt ancient and decrepit—and oddly terrified.

To have killed someone was…unfathomable.

Shoving the paperwork into her pocketbook, she pushed aside the pea green curtain and faced off at a crapload of managed chaos: People in scrubs and white coats were ping-ponging around, jumping into rooms, jumping out of them, giving orders, taking them.

Considering she’d already been in one collision tonight, she was careful not to get in anyone’s way as she headed for the exit.

Which she didn’t use.

The waiting room out in front was filled with various versions of the halt and lame, including one guy with a black eye and a badly bandaged hand that was bleeding. Looking up at her, he nodded, like they were bonding over the fact that she’d gotten into a bar fight, too.

Yeah, you shoulda seen what that oak tree looked like after I was done with him. Word.

At the front desk, she propped herself at the counter and waited to get noticed. When a man came over, she smiled like nothing was a big deal. “Can you tell me what room the John Doe from that car accident is in?”

“Hey, I know you. You’re a reporter.”

“Yeah.” She dug into her bag, got out her laminated press pass, and flashed the thing like it was an FBI badge. “Can you help me?”

“Sure.” He started tapping on the keyboard. “He’s been moved to an inpatient room. Six sixty-six. Take the elevators over there, and follow the signs.”

“Thanks.” She knocked on the counter: He was still breathing, at least. “I appreciate it.”

“You know, you don’t look so hot,” the nurse said, making a circle around one of his eyes.

“Rough night.”

“Clearly.”

The ride up to the sixth floor was an exercise in data processing that her brain flunked badly. Unsteady to begin with, the ascent gave her middle ear a workout that left her hanging on the rail that went around at hip level. Good idea to put one there; then again, they’d probably had a lot of woozy people on this thing. And the fact that the panels were matte gray metal was another bene. She hadn’t seen what she looked like, but given her reception down in Reception, the air bag she’d tried to eat hadn’t done her complexion any good.

The ding was Disney-cheerful, but the doors opened slowly, as if they were exhausted.

Doing as she’d been told, she followed the signs and found the right place, entering a long, broad hall that was marked by countless oversized doors. Things were quieter up here, although no one looked over from the nursing station as she approached. Just as well—she didn’t want to run the risk of someone asking questions, not liking the answers, and shutting her down.

The room was nearly at the end of the corridor, and she half-expected there to be a cop sitting outside of it. There was nothing and nobody. Just another door with a buff-colored number plate on its jamb, and a laminated face that approximated pine.

Pushing on the toggle, she leaned inside. In the dim light, she could see the foot of the bed, a window on the far wall, and a TV mounted by the ceiling. Beeping sounds and the smell of Lysol proved it wasn’t a hotel room—not that she needed help on that one.

She cleared her throat. “Hello?”

When there was no reply, she stepped in and left the door slightly ajar. Walking past the bathroom, she stopped when she got a full view of the patient.

Bringing her hands up, she covered her mouth as her jaw dropped. “Oh…dear God.”

Up above the utility garage, in the cramped studio apartment he’d been renting, Jim Heron couldn’t sleep.

Everyone else around him was out like a light: Dog was at the foot of the cramped twin bed, paws twitching as he dreamed of bunnies or gophers…or maybe black shadows that had teeth. Adrian was propped up around the corner, his back against the crawl space, big body tense even though his breathing was even. And Eddie? Well, the guy was dead, so it wasn’t like he was up pacing the floor.

Desperate for a cigarette, Jim got out of bed on the wrong side to avoid disturbing Dog, and grabbed his pack of Marlboros. Before he left, he went over and checked on Adrian.

Yup. Asleep sitting up.

With a crystal dagger in his hand, in case someone came after his boy.

Poor damn bastard. Eddie’s loss had been a crippler for the team…but particularly for the pierced and tatted wild card who had been on vigil ever since it had happened.

Why did a strong man showing grief in a tough way seem so much sadder than any kind of histrionic weeping and wailing?

And P.S., it was fucking weird to have partners.

Back when Jim had been an assassin in XOps, he’d been a strict solo operator. Now, so much had changed, from his boss to his job description to his weapons of choice—and Eddie Blackhawk had been the one to show him the way, teaching him what he needed to know, calming him and Adrian down when they were throwing punches at each other, being the voice of reason in situations where there seemed to be no logic whatsoever…like when you were standing over your own corpse. Or fighting a demon who had a penchant for Prada and a thing for men who didn’t like her. Or bearing on your shoulders the future of all the good souls and the bad ones that ever had been or would be.

Kind of made a guy want to flip burgers for a living.

With a curse, he went over to the couch, snagged a leather coat, and draped it over Adrian’s lower legs. The other angel grunted and shifted on the floor, but stayed under the coat. Good thing—the goal was to keep the guy warm, not talk to him.

Jim didn’t feel like talking to anybody.

No newsflash there, at least.

Stepping out onto the top landing of the stairs, the cold air clawed into the bare skin of his chest. Before he had a roommate and a dog, he’d always slept in the nude. Now he wore sweats. Helped with the fact that in April, Caldwell was still pretty chilly at night.

Not that he did much sleeping.

The fresh pack of Marlboros was still wrapped in cellophane, and he smacked it on the heel of his hand as he shut the door quietly. One of the advantages of being both immortal and corporeal was that you didn’t have to worry about cancer, but nicotine still had an effect on your nervous system.