The ICU in question was seven levels above where she'd come in, and she took her time going to elevators, strolling along, checking out the nurses' uniforms.
Snooze. Baggy, badly printed cotton with no cle**age showing on top and saggy asses on the bottom. What the hell did they think they were doing with that look?
When she finally got to the banks of metal double doors, she caught a ride up the building with an orderly and an old man on a gurney. The geezer was out like a light, but the pusher gave Devina not just a once-over, but a thrice-over.
No doubt he would have made it to a fourth and a fifth if the doors hadn't opened at her floor.
She tossed him a smile over her shoulder as she stepped out, just for shits and giggles.
And then it was time to get down to business. She had the option of assuming a mist and swirling over the polished floor, but that would have caused a panic. And she could have gone straight-up invisi, but that was a failure of originality in her book: She had passed many a century enjoying the interplay with humans, disguising herself among them, nipping at their heels and brushing up against them - or going farther than that.
No reason to pass up the opportunity for some fun tonight, even though she was working. After all, her therapist was urging her to find greater balance in her life.
As she zeroed in on the unit in question, she went down a corridor that was hung with photographs of various heads of departments.
Very helpful, as it turned out.
She stopped by several, noting the features and the accessories, the name tags and titles, the white coats and the striped ties or formal blouses.
It was like shopping for a new outfit. And she came with her own tailoring service.
Stepping around a corner, she glanced up and down the hallway to make sure she was alone, and then she fritzed out the security camera above her, sending it just enough of an electrical surge to knock it cold without exploding the thing.
Then she assumed the visage and white coat of the chief of neurology, one Denton Phillips, MD.
The guise was a bit of a saggy disappointment compared to her luscious brunette suit of flesh. The man was some sixty years old, and although he was handsome in a well-preserved, snotty-white-guy kind of way, she felt ugly and badly put together.
At least it was better than what she really looked like, and a not-for-long proposition.
As she went back out into the main corridor, she strode like a man, and it was a shot in the arm to see the respect and fear in the eyes of the staff she passed. Not quite as entertaining as lust and envy, but enjoyable nonetheless.
No need to ask where Kroner was. He was a beacon easily followed - and she was not surprised to find a uniformed officer seated outside his private room.
The man rose to his feet. "Doctor."
"I'll just be a minute."
"Take your time."
Not likely - she had to work fast. She had no idea what Denton Phillips, MD, actually sounded like, and there was no way of being sure she got his height correct - which was what happened if all you had was a picture to go by: Now would not be a good time to run into any colleagues who would know better - or worse, the man himself.
The intensive care unit Kroner was in had curtained glass walls, and even from the outside, you could hear the hiss of the medical equipment that was keeping him alive. Sliding the door back temporarily, she pushed aside the bolts of piss-green fabric and stepped in.
"You look like shit," she said in a male voice.
As she walked to the bed, she let the visual lie of the good doctor slip away, showing herself as the beautiful woman Kroner had first met a decade ago.
There were tubes going in and out of every orifice he had, and the tangle of wires coming off his chest made him look like some kind of human switchboard. Lot of bandages and white gauze over gray skin. Lot of bruising. And his face looked like a Mylar balloon, all red and shiny, stretched out from the swelling.
This was not the end that she had planned and worked for. DelVecchio was supposed to have given in and killed the bastard before Heron even got wind of who the next soul was. Unfortunately, her stringy, sicko sacrificial lamb had been slaughtered by someone else.
For f**k's sake, it was obvious he wasn't going to make it. She was not a doctor - she just played one from time to time, natch - but that pallor alone made her think of morticians.
It wasn't too late for the bastard, though. And after thi little whoopsie, she was not taking any chances with the outcome of this round. Time to get a little more aggressive, especially given the deal she'd struck with Heron.
"Not your time to go yet." She leaned over the bed. "I need you."
Closing her eyes, she misted out over the man's body, blanketing him, and then seeping inside of him through his every pore. The power innate in her filled his depleted tank, reenergizing him, pulling him out of the death spiral at the same time it healed and strengthened him.
And to think humans relied on crash carts. How rudimentary was that?
Kroner's eyes popped open just as she was retracting herself, and as she reassumed her shape beside him, he focused on her.
Love shone out of his gaze.
Pathetic, but useful.
"Live," she commanded, "and I shall see you soon."
He tried to nod, but there was too much going on with the intubation thingy in his throat. He was going to make it, however. As she glanced up at the monitoring equipment, his heart rate settled down into a steady rhythm and his blood pressure regulated. Oxygen number came out of the seventies and into the nineties.
"Good boy," she said. "Now rest."
Raising her hand, she put him in a deep, healing sleep, and then she reassumed the image of the good old Dr. Denton.
Get in, get out, get gone.
She left the glassed-in room, nodded to the guard, and then strode down the corridor, passing the sycophants and suckups who all but dropped to their knees in her path. Which was enjoyable. To the point where she was tempted to parade around the hospital for a while just absorbing the experience of being the man.
But again, the last thing she needed was to run into anyone who actually knew the guy. And, more important, she had an appointment with her therapist first thing in the morning, and she needed to pick out what she was going to wear - which could take hours.
Which was why she needed a f**king shrink.
Time to run.
Chapter 13
Angel Airlines, those sets of iridescent wings that Jim was still getting used to, returned him and his boys to the Marriott in the blink of an eye. In the pair of rooms, they converged in Jim's half, with Dog doing a little circling dance now that the band was back together.
"So what am I doing?" As Jim put the question out there, he wondered how many years it was going to take before he didn't have to ask it of Eddie anymore. Probably a few. This job had come with no training, dire straits, and horrifying implications.
Perfect Monster.com listing, yup, yup.
"Get quiet," Eddie said, "and hold the badge. Imagine that DelVecchio is sitting in front of you, facing you with his hands on his knees and his eyes meeting yours. As always, the more specific the vision is, the better this will work. See yourself reaching forward and placing your fingertip on his forehead, and know that this connection will give you the power to pull the memories from him even though you aren't actually touching him. It's all in the mind."
"Ba-um-bum," Adrian capped off.
Settling on the bed, Jim held the badge in his palms and felt like an utter ass. Back in his days as an XOps soldier, or hell, even earlier, when he'd just been a punk-ass civilian, he'd never been into this transcendental, belly-lint-staring, yogi maharishi-whatever crap. He supposed with enough go-arounds like this he might get used to it, but he was always going to be a doer, not a downward-dog kind of guy.
Whatever, though.
Concentrating on the badge, the thing felt like an ice cube against his skin, with all the piercing cold, just none of the dripping water. And it would have helped if he knew DelVecchio a little better, but he did what he could to see the man: the dark hair, that handsome-as-sin face, the cold, smart blue eyes -
From one moment to the next, what he pictured became something he suddenly actually saw in 3-D, as if he'd been staring at a TV and an actor had stepped through the screen to sit in front of him.
Except the shit was all wrong.
The man had two faces.
Jim shook his head, like maybe that was going to clear up the problem. Didn't help. The primary visage was DelVecchio's ... and so was the other one, like a double-exposed photograph.