Cat Adams - The Isis Collar

I was sitting in the hallway finishing the last of the chocolaty goodness when Simone reappeared.

“I’m very sorry, Ms. Graves, but I’m afraid I need to get identification and credit card information from you.” Her face flushed, whether from embarrassment or anger I wasn’t sure. “I just spoke with your insurance carrier. It seems they’re denying your coverage. They claim you’re, well, dead. ”

So much for not mentioning it. I figured at least it would have to go through the processing period or not get noticed until working hours tomorrow. I sighed and began rummaging in my purse. This was just getting ridiculous. The minute I got back to the office I was scanning those letters and sending them to my attorney. Let him deal with the idiots at the insurance company.

Simone glanced from my driver’s license to my face and back again until I felt compelled to explain. “It’s the Abomination thing. They’re claiming I’m dead so that they won’t have to pay any of my claims.”

“I see.” She handed back my license, but took my credit card with her. She’d barely gone when a nurse in Snoopy scrubs weighed me and lead me into the exam room.

When I followed the nurse through the doorway at the end of the hall all impressions of the shining white and stainless-steel office disappeared. The room was dim, lit with burning torches set into pockets in the walls. I could barely hear the low whir of fans that pulled the smoke upward and away from the room. Mostly the sound in the room was from an artificial waterfall in the corner that filled the air with a cool mist. The moist air was filled with such a strong mix of scents that I nearly started sneezing. Everything from peppermint to catnip, licorice, and bitterroot. Oh, and let’s not forget the animals. I didn’t think it was legal to have live animals in a medical building. Yet here they were—goats and chickens and lizards and snails in glass tanks.

Um.

There were small groups of people in various areas of the large room, dressed in colorful outfits that made my red shirt look positively pastel. Men and women in lab coats were talking in low tones and one was standing in the middle of a circle, shaking a headless chicken.

Um again.

I was still gathering my senses around me when a tall, handsome black man walked in through the opposite door. He was wearing a standard white lab coat and had a stethoscope around his neck. He reached out his hand toward me and locked piercing, intelligent eyes with mine. His accent was minimal and there was an interesting edge to his a’ s that made me think of England. “Ms. Graves? Sorry to keep you waiting.” He passed me back the credit card I’d given Simone. “I’m Dr. Jean-Baptiste. Let’s get started, shall we?” He waved me toward a padded leather chair that looked surprisingly comfortable. I sat down, and when I looked up again, I got my second surprise.

He’d donned a headdress of leather with beads, feathers, and what I feared was chicken claws. In his hand was a carved wooden stick—too long for a wand but too short for a cane. There were more feathers attached in long streams.

It was as though putting on his tools of the trade transported him in time and space. It might have said M.D. on his shiny brass name tag, but the witch shone in glowing eyes filled with power enough to make my skin crawl.

“There is something wrong with your blood. Have you fed on anyone sick lately?”

It was such a matter-of-fact question that I reared back in surprise. “I haven’t fed on anyone. Ever.”

His expression showed his disbelief, like an ob-gyn reacting to a pregnant woman telling him she was a virgin. He raised the carved staff and brought it down toward my forehead. I raised a hand before I thought and stopped it cold a foot away from me. It ticked me off for no apparent reason. His brows rose and then he dipped his head. “That angered you. My apologies. It is part of the examination. You have no experience with Orvah magic?”

I shook my head. “Not since college, and it was just a chapter in my practical magic course. I’m only here because Gwen Talbert recommended you.”

He let go of the staff abruptly, leaving me holding it in the air. He sat down on a rolling padded stool and put a small white laptop on his … well, lap while I tried to figure out what to do with the stick. “Tell me,” he commanded. “Why are you here?”

Torches, goats rumbling in the background, and … fingers racing across a keyboard. Frankly, it was a little hard to focus. I put the stick on the floor next to my chair and started slow, trying to figure out exactly what to say. At this point, I’d said it so many times that I nearly had the symptoms memorized. “I’ve had a blinding headache since a bomb exploded in the local grade school, and most mornings I can barely stand for the pain in my leg. A bite wound from a small child simply won’t heal for no reason anyone can find. I’ve also been having really weird dreams—where I’m stalking people, hissing at them. But I wake up in bed. I’m afraid to even fall asleep some nights. I swear it’s about the bomb. You heard about that, right?”

He nodded. “Hard not to. It was all over the paper for days. But all the reports said it was a failed attempt, that nobody was seriously injured.”

“I know. And that’s what’s weird. Because I’d swear two bombs went off. The first explosion happened when everybody was frozen in place and the second one was down in the boiler room.” I hadn’t talked this freely about the incident with the previous doctors. But maybe that was why they hadn’t been able to help me. Gwen trusted this guy. I trusted Gwen. I decided to put my faith in doctor-patient confidentiality and tell him everything.

“I got some road rash, and the bite from a child I was carrying out of the building. But while the scrapes and bruises went away almost immediately, the bite site is still really tender and bruised and then there’s this spot on my calf that hurts like fire. It’s weird. The vampire part of me heals really quick. Why are these injuries still lingering?”

“Ah…”

I perked up at the tone of his voice. It said something had occurred to him. “Yes?”

He stopped typing and raised an index finger to point at me. “So it’s not so much that you hurt, but that you still hurt. Before this event, had you ever had a headache? Ever thrown out your knee?”

Thinking back, I had to shrug and shake my head. “Other than one Sunday morning in college when I vowed never again to drink tequila, no headaches at all.” He smiled ruefully, like he’d made a similar vow in his youth. But I had to add, “Unless you count concussions. I’ve had a few of those. Hard to avoid in my field. But my legs have always been good. All the doctors say there’s nothing wrong. MRIs, CT scans, X-rays, and full blood workups. Nothing. I’ve been to a traditional witch doctor already, but nothing. I’m hoping you’ve got something new up your sleeve.”

There was a long pause while he thought. His pen tapped against the white lab coat, printing tiny dots of blue that he probably wouldn’t discover until he put it in the laundry. The chicken feet bounced in time with the pen. “My specialty is blood illnesses and I sense sickness in you.” He motioned to the stick at my feet. “Could you pick that up, please?”

I picked it up and handed it out to him. He didn’t take it. “Tell me a lie, Ms. Graves.”

My eyebrows touched my lashes. “Excuse me?”

“Please,” he asked politely, with a sweeping, courtly gesture. “Humor me. Lie to me about something while holding that.”

I shrugged and tried to think of something that was such an obvious lie that it would tell him whatever he needed to know. “Um … my mother and I have a close and loving relationship.” I had to school my face to stay blank after that whopper. Fortunately, I’m very good at blank.