Dearest Ivie Page 8

Ivie stepped to the side so the human who was leaving could get out the vestibule's door. And then a minute later, she was easing against the wall of mailboxes again as a man and a woman came in.

  She checked her watch. And then her phone.

  "Okay, enough with this."

  Although even with the resolution, she lingered a little longer, staring at the short-nap snow mat and the dissolving tracks left by that couple.

  It was a little after quarter of seven when she turned away and took the stairs back up to her place. Letting herself in, she went over to the couch and sat down, putting her purse on the coffee table.

  She stared at the dark screen of her phone as the humans above her moved around, the ceiling creaking quietly. Someone was making a curry down the hall. Another person was cooking something with basil and onions in it.

  The mingling scents made her think of the plans they'd had.

  Something had to be wrong.

  Calling up a text screen, she took a couple of tries and settled on a quick Hope everything is okay--no worries about dinner. I'm off to work to cover that extra shift. Maybe we'll catch up at the end of the night.

  And then she waited.

  When nothing came back at her, she frowned and replayed the goodnight from the evening before. There had been nothing amiss, nothing to suggest he would blow her off--unless he was an Oscar-winning actor, and he certainly hadn't seemed duplicitous in any way. So what the hell was going on?

  She lit up the screen of her phone. No notifications.

  Five minutes later, she put her password in and checked everything internally. Nothing. No missed phone calls or messages--yeah, nothing had come through during the nanoseconds when she had been blinking.

  The longer she stared at that little screen, the more she realized...she really didn't know a lot about Silas. She had never been to his house. She'd never met his family or friends. She had only a vague idea of what he did. And she had no means of contacting him other than his cell phone.

  When she was with him, when she was looking into his eyes, she felt as though she knew all she needed to. But faced with this black hole? She began to wonder.

  And yet there was another side of her, a more rational one, which quite reasonably pointed out that it was a little bit premature to go into drama just because the guy was an hour late and hadn't checked in with her.

  Fine, soon to be two hours late. But still.

  There was no doubt a reasonable explanation for this, and any minute the phone was going to go off, and she would hear his voice, and she would get the story of what had happened, and they would be back on track.

  "Okay. Right. Time to go to work."

  Clapping her free hand on her thigh, she got to her feet, grabbed her purse, and headed for the door once again. The good news with having to go into the clinic was that there was no way she could sit for hours staring at her phone while her emotions cannibalized her higher reasoning.

  Silas would be in touch. There was no way he wouldn't.

  * * *

  --

  Nothing.

  As Ivie's second break ground to an end, her phone was still a wasteland of no-comment, no-call, and she was about as twitchy as an addict without their fix. And that was seriously alarming.

  Sitting alone in the break room, with nothing but the hum of the staff refrigerator and the whisper of the fluorescent lights in the ceiling to keep her company, she missed Rubes. Well, sort of missed the female. With her cousin having transitioned over to the VIP wing, it turned out that the two of them weren't on the same break schedule, and one thing about Rubes was that she was a cheerful distraction. That being said, however, chances were her cousin would just be prattling on about true love and romance and how all of this was going to work out.

  So yes, it was hard to know whether it was better to be alone with her head or in the company of the kind of optimism that Ivie certainly wasn't feeling at the moment.

  Probably best she was by herself. Her mood was getting worse, and the nurse clinician in her was not helping by providing a commentary on the sudden dopamine and serotonin imbalance that occurs in the vampire brain when pleasure is replaced by stress and hurt. For example, that sense of an ache behind the sternum? There was an actual physiological reason for it. Romantics, like Rubes, put a name on the pain, but "heartbreak" was actually nothing more than a combination of stress hormones, blood pressure variants, and unconscious muscle tension. And just like the cold or the flu, eventually it would pass.

  Too bad you couldn't take Mucinex for it--

  The staff room door burst open and a colleague of hers leaned in. "Ivie, your patient in eight is coding again."

  Ivie jumped up and tossed the sandwich she hadn't eaten in the trash. "Damn it, I thought he'd finally stabilized..."

  The rest of the shift was spent dealing with a death that everyone in the family and on the staff had known was coming. The patient had been upward of six hundred years old, which for a commoner who had lived a hard life was considered advanced age, and yet when his heart had stopped for the fourth and what turned out to be the final time, it had nonetheless been a surprise.

  But that was the nature of death, Ivie had come to learn. No matter when it happened or how expected it was, there was always a shock to the loss.

  And because of that, she took special care with the family, holding their hands and letting them ask as many questions as they needed to. Ultimately, though, there was no response she could offer that would give them the relief they were seeking. Only time could bring them over the difficult road out of the pain, the mourning process the sole thing that would heal the wound of the loss.

  When they finally departed the facility, she still had thirty minutes to go on the shift, but her supervisor caught her as she was coming out of the family counseling room and told her to leave early. For a minute, Ivie was tempted to finish things out, but she was scattered for so many reasons, and it was probably best to just go home.

  Walking into the break room, she took a deep breath and proceeded to the bank of lockers. As soon as she opened hers, she went for her phone, because she was pathetic like that, and she was not surprised that there was nothing waiting for her on it.

  She needed a plan. That was what she needed. A concrete, step-by-step, A-to-B-to-C progression that took her from here to home to her shower to Last Meal in front of the TV to what was no doubt going to be fitful sleep. She might not be able to control Silas and where he was and what he was doing, but she could micromanage her own moments.

  Thus redirecting the angst to a series of tasks.

  Classic distraction technique. Better than drinking, because it didn't come with a hangover--or the specter of calling Silas and making an ass out of herself. It was also a one-up on gambling, overeating, and a whole host of other things that people self-medicated with.

  "Shower first," she said. "And then--"

  The door swung open, and Ivie dimly noted someone coming in, but she didn't look over from getting her coat and purse--

  "Ivie."

  At the sound of Rubes's voice, she twisted around. "Oh, hey, cousin--"

  Ivie stopped dead. Everything about the other female was off. Rubes wasn't smiling, for one. More shocking? Her eyes looked old, absolutely ancient. Which was the antithesis of her. And then there was her voice. Low, grim.

  "What's wrong?" Ivie asked. "What can I do to help?"

  "I need you to come with me."

  "Is it a patient?" She shut her locker back up, ready for whatever was required. "Anything you need, I got you."

  Rubes ducked her eyes. "Just come with me."

  Ivie frowned and followed her cousin out of the break room. The clinic was a maze of corridors and levels, people moving around constantly, pushing carts of medicine and supplies or pieces of equipment with them, transporting patients, directing family members and visitors. On the surface, there was nothing unusual for Ivie and Rubes to be walking at a clip together. Undern
eath, though, Ivie's head was racing in a million different clinical directions.

  Couldn't be a code in the VIP unit. There were tons of staff on hand for that.

  Couldn't be a member of their family admitted. Ivie's mom was the clearinghouse for their bloodline's news, and God forbid if it was her mahmen? Ivie's father would have shown up, not her cousin.

  Plus, hello, none of her family would be admitted with the rich people.

  Maybe it wasn't a VIP issue--nope, they were entering the unit now, pushing their way through the mahogany doors that were marked with the family seal of Havers's bloodline.

  Just as with luxury hotels, there was a front and a back side to the high-rent district, the latter being a series of hidden, utilitarian halls that were conduits for quick access to the fancier, formal treatment rooms and ORs. Once inside, Rubes hooked them up with the main staff corridor, using her pass card to unlock the steel door so they could hurry down the bald passageway with its linoleum floors and fluorescent ceiling lights.

  One way you knew you were in the VIP area was that the scent of fresh-cut flowers overlaid the antiseptic smell of the cleaning agents used. And as Ivie rushed along after her cousin, she breathed in deep.

  "Rubes, you want to give me a quick briefing on this? So I know what I'm walking in on?"

  As they continued onward, they started passing by a long series of doors that opened on both sides of the corridor. These were the back ways into patient rooms, the discreet entrance/exits provided so medicines could be delivered or food brought in without undue disturbance to the rest of the ward.

  While they went along, Ivie nodded at the other staff they encountered. Rubes, on the other hand, just kept her head down--which was also not like her.

  They were quite a ways along when the female slowed and then stopped. Looking left and right, she waited as an orderly pushed a laundry cart past them.

  She didn't say anything until he was way out of earshot.

  "Look, I could lose my job for this," she said in that strange tone. "But I don't know what else to do."

  Ivie put a hand on her cousin's shoulder. "Listen, whatever it is, you and I will deal with it, okay? Don't worry, Rubes. We can handle this."

  Rubes knocked softly, and when a muffled voice answered, she pushed her way in. As Ivie entered behind her cousin, she tugged her uniform down and smoothed her plastic credentials as they hung from a zip cord off her lapel. These patients could be tough to deal with, their sense of entitlement allowing them to channel reasonable anxiety into unreasonable demands and critiques of staff.

  And she didn't want to complicate her cousin's problem by--

  Ivie's body caught on before her head did, her feet stopping, her breath sucking in, her heart jumping. Yet her mind lagged far behind, her thoughts going into a confused chaos even as her senses grounded her in an inscrutable yet undeniable reality.

  The suite was as grand as anything you'd find at the Four Seasons, the hospital bed fitted with satin sheets and a monogrammed duvet, the bureau an antique, the monitoring equipment hidden by a silk screen with a French courtesan scene on it. The marble bathroom was off to the side, and there was a formal sitting room out front, with a decor and accoutrements worthy of a Vanderbilt estate.

  But none of the luxuriousness registered.

  The patient was across the way, pulling on a shirt. "I have to be somewhere in twenty minutes. So yes, I'm leaving--"

  That was when he stopped.

  And slowly turned around.

  Silas froze as their eyes met. And Ivie was the first to break the connection--because her stare swept over his torso. The gap between the two halves of that button down showed her the feeding tube that had been surgically implanted off to one side, as well as the port up by his chest, and the drain on the left.

  There were scars, too, evidences of surgeries that should have been well healed, but were lingering.

  Because he was clearly very, very ill.

  "Rubes," he said roughly, "not fair."

  "You're not well enough to go and you know it. I did what I had to do."

  Ivie covered her mouth with her palm. She didn't want the shock to show. Too late for that.

  And then things got worse.

  A female burst into the room from the front of the suite, her gait like that of a drill sergeant, her attitude one of total superiority.

  She was a stranger, but Ivie recognized her immediately.

  It was the retainer who had turned her away at that mansion. The one who thought she was too young to help a dying male find his way unto the Fade.

  "Sire," the female said, "I came as soon as they called. One mustn't be rash. You shall stay herein and receive the--"

  "Leave us," Silas snapped without looking at her.

  The female glanced over at Ivie with hauteur. "Yes, do give us some privacy. This is a private matter--"

  "Not her. You." His head shifted over. "You, too, Rubes. You go as well."

  The retainer recoiled as if he had slapped her, and then clearly wasn't having the dismissal. "Now, sire, one must be reasonable--"

  "GET OUT!" he screamed, his face going red, his voice booming. "Get the fuck out of here right this minute or you're fucking fired!"

  Rubes took that opportunity to disappear out of the staff door. The retainer wasn't as smart or efficient in her exit.

  The female seemed to become suspended between the direct order and her inner convictions. But when Silas just glared at her like he was prepared to throw her out of the suite himself, she cleared her throat.

  "I do wish you would reconsider," she said tightly.

  "Duly noted and declined."

  Squaring her shoulders, she didn't retreat so much as un-advance, if that made sense, her regal carriage and clipping, short-heeled shoes, like a string of curses left in her wake.

  And then Ivie and Silas were alone.

  Chapter Ten

  "If you'll excuse me," Silas said tightly, "I have to sit down."

  His gait was stiff as he went over to the bed, and he lowered himself onto the mattress like every bone in his body hurt. With hands that shook, he slowly did up each button of the shirt, covering himself.

  As he worked to close the two halves, snippets of memories flashed through Ivie's mind: him not really ever eating; him not removing all his clothes those times they'd been together; the sudden burst of energy he'd had from feeding; his need to go home at dawn each night; the fact that he never dematerialized, but drove.

  But all of that was kind of hard to track.

  There was a silk-covered armchair over in the corner by a brass lamp and an Old Masters painting of a vase of flowers. Ivie went across and sat down because she didn't trust her legs.

  Any more than he seemed to trust his own.

  Just for different reasons.

  "Needless to say," he murmured, "my upcoming trip is not to the Old Country."

  Ivie dropped her arms and let her head fall back. There were no tears for her, and she was glad that she had always reacted to situations of high emotion with a lack of drama as opposed to a surplus.

  She wiped her mouth even though it was stone dry. "I, ah..." She cleared her throat. "So, um, I guess I went to your house, didn't I?"

  What she really wanted to know was what the hell was wrong with him, but demanding that information seemed a violation of his privacy--especially given that she was in uniform and at work.

  "I'm sorry," Silas said as he stared at his hands. "It was wrong of me not to come clean about my condition."

  "It's okay."

  "No, it isn't."

  Fine, that's true enough, she thought. But compared to the ramifications of your being this ill?

  Harping on him because he hadn't admitted he was...

  She couldn't say the word, even in her head.

  And then something came back to her. "My cell phone number. I never did give it to you, did I. I never...I just picked up your call. I didn't tell you my
address, either. How could I have missed that?"

  Then again, she'd been gob-smacked that someone like him had just shown up in her life. Tangled in fantasies, she had missed the reality in front of her.

  Guess that theory also covered the other clues she'd overlooked.

  Silas took a deep breath and shuddered on the exhale. "When you came for the interview that night, I didn't have any interest in a private nurse. Pritchard--that is my majordomo--was insisting, and so were the clinicians here. To me, though, it felt like I was giving up. Transferring into hospice too soon." He shrugged. "I mean, that's the final stage, you know. Someone coming to the house every night, plugging and unplugging the machines, working the drugs, waiting for the point of no resuscitation. I went through it with my father. I remember exactly what it was like."

  Ivie closed her eyes. She'd thought she'd gone to that mansion to see an old male.

  Wrong.

  And oh, God, his father had died, too? Was it of the same thing, she wondered.

  Silas continued, "Pritchard argued with me, so I decided to go down and tell you to leave myself. She followed me, and you didn't see us. You were looking at the painting of my great-granhmen. There was something...I can't explain it. There was just something about you. I think Pritchard picked up on it, and next thing I knew, she volunteered to tell you to depart herself."

  "I know she disapproved of me. She said I was too young."

  "She told me that, as well." Silas shook his head. "Anyway, you left, but you paused on the front stoop to make a phone call. I was in the window of the dining room, and I heard through the glass that you were meeting someone at that cigar bar. I decided to go see you there because...to be honest, at that point, I hadn't been out of the house for two and a half months. I think you gave me a concrete reason to get motivated. I snuck out, got in my car, and it felt so good to be doing something. I opened the sunroof and turned the heater on and just enjoyed being free. When I got downtown, I almost kept going, but there was a spot open right in front of the bar."

  When he stopped there, she remembered Rubes's enthusiasm that night. "You watched us and then came over."

  "And the rest is history." He frowned. "I would have called you or texted you tonight. I wanted to, but I didn't have my phone with me when I was brought in."

  The very practical part of her needed to put a name to the disease, a title to this war he was fighting. "I have to ask. I'm sorry, but I just have to."