Shutter by Courtney Alameda Read Free Book Online

last e-mail—a meager two lines shot off at ten thousand feet. No muttering about everything she’d left untied when she cleared out a month ago. So God bless painkiller cocktails; I loved Oliver but his emo side rubbed me raw. At least his father was still proud of him, and at least his mother was still alive. At least he was used to being an only child.
    A ground crew opened the chopper’s hatch, releasing us onto the helipad. Dr. Stoker crossed to us, narrowing his eyes against the wind and dust. Placing one hand on Oliver’s back, he ushered his son off the helipad, gesturing to the rest of us to follow.
    Seward Memorial’s sixth floor was private, accessible only to high-ranking officers and their families. We walked over the Helsing cross inlaid into the lobby’s mirror-finish marble floor, the motto Semper Vigilans inscribed below. A sleek, circular reception desk sat in the room’s center, and the lacquer-black furnishings and pristine white walls felt more chic than comforting. Floor-to-ceiling windows displayed the northern edge of the bay at night, with Sausalito’s lights winking like cats’ eyes among the inky hills.
    The grandest thing in the room, however, was the mural of the famous Abraham Van Helsing and his original reaping crew: his protégé, Dr. John Seward; the lone American, Quincey Morris; Helsing’s first investor, Arthur Holmwood; the “other Abraham,” Bram Stoker; and Van Helsing’s dearest friends, Jonathan and Mina Harker.
    Van Helsing stood in their midst with a book, not a gun, in his hand—their leader, protector, and guide. Mina Harker sat on his right side, with Jonathan’s hand on her shoulder. Her vibrant eyes always caught my attention, because we shared the same shimmering, peacock-blue irises. I felt a kinship with her, not only for the color of our eyes but for the scars we’d won in our fight against the dead.
    A silver plaque beside the painting held a quote of Van Helsing’s I knew by heart, one I repeated to myself when in tight straits and dark places: “I have a duty to do, a duty to others, a duty to you, a duty to the dead, and by God, I shall do it.” Those words usually brought me courage; but tonight, they echoed in the void between who I was and the Helsing I was supposed to be.
    Dr. Stoker checked us into the hospital. Nurses secured ID bracelets around our wrists, issued us cotton scrubs and disposable slippers, then ushered us into an examination room. They separated me from the boys with a snap of a curtain.
    “I’ll take your clothes,” one of the nurses said as I peeled off my jacket. “We need to send them to the labs for analysis.”
    “I’m keeping my camera.”
    “Of course, miss.”
    I removed my shirt next, dismayed to see how the ghostlight had already spread. The light formed a closed loop that sketched and skewed under my skin, about the same length as my index finger.
    It wasn’t fading away. It was growing .
    Resisting the urge to hurl, I tugged the scrubs over my head. The pants came next, and I had to roll the hems several times to make them fit. My body heat leaked out of the thin fabric. Shivers plucked my skin. My teeth chattered a few times before I clenched my jaw.
    “Chills are an early symptom of paranecrosis,” the nurse said, placing the back of her hand against my forehead. “You received H-three treatment at the pier clinic, didn’t you?”
    I nodded. She pressed her lips together in a frown. “Well, you don’t have a fever and your color looks okay. I’ll get you a robe.”
    When I rejoined the others, Jude lounged on a gurney, gloved hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Ryder paced the cordoned length of the room, anxious as a caged big cat. Oliver and his father spoke in low voices by the door. Dr. Stoker placed a hand on Oliver’s shoulder and gave him a little shake, his fingers the same length and shape as his son’s.
    Of all the first families—of the forefathers shown in the painting—only