ants covered me. “Hey, stop. Get me out of here!” Hot knives felt like they were carving me up. The ants penetrated deeper, determined to strip me to the bone. Every nerve ending was screaming. My stomach clenched. My mind red-washed with pure agony, as every particle of matter in my body tried to shatter the molecular bonds. I choked on fire as it surged up with my breath, and ignited from my pores.
A scream rent the air. It took me a moment to recognize the inhuman sound as mine.
Footfalls running my way were suddenly cut off as a fierce electric jolt replaced the usual cross over tingle.
I remained in one piece, but close to my skin, nearly clear as glass, my ragged aura fluttered, thinner than I’d ever seen it. Moments from aura failure, I flailed and whipped myself sideways into the cylinder wall encasing me. I left the outer casing of the MRI and drifted several feet off the floor.
Another electric tingle shimmered through me and sound returned along with normal gravity. I smacked the floor, shielding my face from impact with my arms. I lay there, a huddle of misery, muscles twitching, heart pounding, the memory of pain almost as intense as the real thing had been. I sobbed, completely uncaring that I felt a draft where my hospital gown completely failed to protect my dignity. Drenched in sweat, I felt like a soggy dish towel that had been wrung out—and run over by a fleet of trucks.
The area filled with panicked voices. The hospital people probably thought they’d accidentally disintegrated me when I vanished from the metal tongue. The guards were agitated, yelling questions.
I shifted sideways, covering my butt, and tried to figure out what had happened. I’d been forced into the ghost world—either by the machine, or my gift kicking in on its own to save me from some kind of damage a human wouldn’t have taken. Either way, I now knew to avoid MRIs in the future, at all costs.
Next time could be fatal.
Sanchez blocked the hospital personal wanting to take control of me. Her steely glare allowed no argument. She checked my bandages for signs of broken stitches and bleeding. “Looks good,” she muttered. “You got lucky.”
“Yeah, I feel so lucky it hurts. How long do those things stay in?”
“New development: the stitches dissolve after a while so they don’t have to be removed.”
Kendall knelt. He carefully picked me up as if I were a small child, placed me back on the gurney, and wheeled me out. He and I both ignored flurrying questions from my doctor. Kendall looked grim. Sanchez waved ID and snarled at the doctor’s persistence. “This is a national security matter. Nothing happened here, got it?”
Worn out, each breath seemed labored. My thoughts sunk into a miasma of fatigue. I happily returned to my bed, settling in to finish my nap. Really, d reams are much safer. Usually.
SEVEN
“A dragon on wings drops in for the kill,
flaming my heart, as dark dreams spill.”
—Warrior’s Bride
Elektra Blue
Someone was crying. The sound dragged me from a deep, foggy sleep. I forced my eyes open, wiping away grit, and looked at my visitor’s chair. Mom was there. Not Cassie. Mom —the woman who’d raised me. She clutched a Kleenex, mangling it in both hands. Her bony wrists were thick with glossy, indigo bracelets that matched a navy blue sweater. The sweater’s gold buttons had anchors on them. Her head was bowed, crowned by thick, silver curls that had the faintest suggestion of blue. Her real hair was short and pinned under the wig. She had a dozen of them, all the same style and color.
A scream rent the air. It took me a moment to recognize the inhuman sound as mine.
Footfalls running my way were suddenly cut off as a fierce electric jolt replaced the usual cross over tingle.
I remained in one piece, but close to my skin, nearly clear as glass, my ragged aura fluttered, thinner than I’d ever seen it. Moments from aura failure, I flailed and whipped myself sideways into the cylinder wall encasing me. I left the outer casing of the MRI and drifted several feet off the floor.
Another electric tingle shimmered through me and sound returned along with normal gravity. I smacked the floor, shielding my face from impact with my arms. I lay there, a huddle of misery, muscles twitching, heart pounding, the memory of pain almost as intense as the real thing had been. I sobbed, completely uncaring that I felt a draft where my hospital gown completely failed to protect my dignity. Drenched in sweat, I felt like a soggy dish towel that had been wrung out—and run over by a fleet of trucks.
The area filled with panicked voices. The hospital people probably thought they’d accidentally disintegrated me when I vanished from the metal tongue. The guards were agitated, yelling questions.
I shifted sideways, covering my butt, and tried to figure out what had happened. I’d been forced into the ghost world—either by the machine, or my gift kicking in on its own to save me from some kind of damage a human wouldn’t have taken. Either way, I now knew to avoid MRIs in the future, at all costs.
Next time could be fatal.
Sanchez blocked the hospital personal wanting to take control of me. Her steely glare allowed no argument. She checked my bandages for signs of broken stitches and bleeding. “Looks good,” she muttered. “You got lucky.”
“Yeah, I feel so lucky it hurts. How long do those things stay in?”
“New development: the stitches dissolve after a while so they don’t have to be removed.”
Kendall knelt. He carefully picked me up as if I were a small child, placed me back on the gurney, and wheeled me out. He and I both ignored flurrying questions from my doctor. Kendall looked grim. Sanchez waved ID and snarled at the doctor’s persistence. “This is a national security matter. Nothing happened here, got it?”
Worn out, each breath seemed labored. My thoughts sunk into a miasma of fatigue. I happily returned to my bed, settling in to finish my nap. Really, d reams are much safer. Usually.
SEVEN
“A dragon on wings drops in for the kill,
flaming my heart, as dark dreams spill.”
—Warrior’s Bride
Elektra Blue
Someone was crying. The sound dragged me from a deep, foggy sleep. I forced my eyes open, wiping away grit, and looked at my visitor’s chair. Mom was there. Not Cassie. Mom —the woman who’d raised me. She clutched a Kleenex, mangling it in both hands. Her bony wrists were thick with glossy, indigo bracelets that matched a navy blue sweater. The sweater’s gold buttons had anchors on them. Her head was bowed, crowned by thick, silver curls that had the faintest suggestion of blue. Her real hair was short and pinned under the wig. She had a dozen of them, all the same style and color.
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