As Lie The Dead by Kelly Meding Read Free Book Online Page B

pressed close to her chest.
    “Thanks,” the latecomer said.
    I shivered. Gaped at her skewed profile, barely able to see her chin and nose. I’d never forget that voice, though. The other doctor had called her Pat. So much for Wyatt’s minuscule odds.
    Pat turned her head in our direction. Shit. I grabbed Wyatt’s shoulder, spun him to face me, put my head down on his chest, and started to fake-cry. He tensed, probably unsure what the hell was wrong with me, then wrapped his arms around my shoulders. I ignored the warmth of his embrace and the gentle circles he was rubbing on my back, and I concentrated instead on bringing some good tears. Just to add a little realism to the act.
    But I never counted on my thoughts wandering to Alex. Real tears stung my eyes and closed my throat. God, hadn’t I cried enough for ten people yet? No, it was more than just my grief for Alex. Chalice missed him, too.
    “Oh, dear me,” a raspy voice said, probably the elderly woman. “Is she all right?”
    “Her, ah, uncle is dying,” Wyatt said. “They were close.”
    “The poor thing. It’s so sad when someone we love is taken. God took my Henry from me last year, and I’ve just not been the same since.”
    “Your husband?”
    “My German shepherd.”
    Laughter bubbled up through my sobs, and it came out a strangled gasp. Wyatt held me a little tighter. The elevator stopped and dinged. Doors scraped.
    “Our floor,” Wyatt said.
    I kept my head low and let him guide me out of the elevator. “God be with you both,” the old woman said to our departing backs.
    He hadn’t been around much so far, and I doubted he’d be around today.
    Wyatt pulled us to the side, near a polished water fountain. I held on to the laughter generated by that daft woman’s dog comment and used it to drive the grief away. Pound it into the back of my mind, where it needed to stay for a while longer. Wyatt cupped his hand beneath my chin.
    “What was that about?” he whispered.
    “That was my M.E.,” I replied softly. “The one I scared shitless the other day. It was her.”
    He blanched. “Whoa.”
    “Yeah, so I had to do some hasty theatrics before she got a good look at me and pulled her fainting act again.”
    “I didn’t realize you were that good an actor.”
    I wiped my cheeks, cleared my throat, and hoped I didn’t look as weepy as I felt. “I’m not,” I said, and started striding down the hall. Intent on room 419.
    Past a nurses’ station, two waiting areas, and at least two dozen rooms, we finally landed in the 410s … 411 … 413. Another waiting area, this time a windowed room with all the blinds drawn. Inexplicably, the door swung open—inward, or it would have cracked me in the face good and hard—and Gina Kismet stepped out.
    “You call that making it fast?” she asked, and then after a beat added, “You got it together?”
    “I’m fine,” I said. “What’s the emergency?”
    She backed up and let us inside. Five people werein the room. Two of them didn’t surprise me, since Kismet was there. Tybalt Monahan stood just inside the door, back against the wall like a sentry. His jeans bulged around the middle of his right thigh, hiding bandages from wounds he’d taken during that morning’s battle. He spared me a nod, and I mirrored the gesture. Directly across the room was Felix, one of his Triad teammates—another young, puppy-dog-eyed face battling at Olsmill that morning. Our paths had crossed occasionally over the last few years, most notably on the occasion two years ago that I now distinctly remember punching Tybalt in the mouth.
    Two of the other folks whose presence actually surprised me were seated in chairs opposite the door. Amalie and her bodyguard Jaron, so different from when I’d seen them in First Break, offered polite smiles. They called the human bodies they inhabited aboveground “avatars,” a means to pass among humans without being noticed—if Amalie called being in the body of a