possible. The fluorescent lights burning twenty-four hours a day, the smell of bleach, the hurried movement of the living. . . these things did nothing to scour away the souls of the confused who wandered the corridors in search of a restroom or their rides home.
Anya steeled herself, gripping the steering wheel of her car in the parking garage of Detroit Receiving Hospital. She never took a spirit unless there was no other choice. But in these places, the spirits could behave badly. She would have to ignore the trouble they caused, trying to catch her attention.
She stepped out of the Dart and slammed the door. The solid sound echoed across the cavernous garage like a summons and she swore she could hear rustling somewhere below her. The salamander collar on her throat warmed. She felt Sparky stir, his ear-gills perking up. The familiar spirit would be riding shotgun on this one; there was no way she could imagine Sparky wouldn’t feel compelled to sniff at the strange spirits and gnaw on expensive electronic equipment.
He unfurled from her throat, sliding down her back, and took shape on the floor of the parking garage. He looked up at her, tongue flicking.
“Be good, Sparky,” she murmured. “I’m at work, so keep a low profile.”
Anya turned to walk toward the parking garage elevators. Sparky kept pace with her, his hips swishing side to side as he came to heel. He was trying very hard to be wellbehaved. She’d see how long this would last.
She stepped into the elevator and punched the button for the ground floor. Sparky reached up and licked the grimy button. The light behind the button dimmed.
“Sparky,” she hissed.
His feathery ear-fronds laid back, Sparky put his head down between his front feet, chastened.
The doors opened to the ER lobby, and Anya groaned inwardly. The lobby was full of living patients perched in chairs and wheelchairs, with doctors and nurses milling calmly around them. A young woman with needle tracks on her arm was retching in a trashcan. A mother yelled at her son for sticking a marble up his nose, threatening to slap it out of him. A man wearing a business suit stared blankly at the soaps on the television in the waiting area. He was restrained to a gurney, and his hands were bound with heavy gauze mittens.
These things didn’t disturb her nearly as much as the translucent spirit of the elderly lady with the bowl of Jell-O on her head. She screamed at Anya from the information desk, shaking her fragile fists in wrath. She wore pink fuzzy socks and a hospital gown open in the back to expose buttocks sliding down toward the backs of her knees.
She pointed her finger at Anya and howled, “That’s the one! That’s the nurse who stole my cigarettes!”
Anya inwardly resolved not to react to the woman. She strode deliberately to the information desk and spoke quietly to the clerk. “I’m here to see Steve Neuman, please.”
“I’m sorry,” the clerk answered, paging through her clipboard. “He’s in the burn unit, and no visitors are allowed. Are you family?”
Anya flipped out her badge. “I’m with DFD. I promise that I’ll be brief.”
“Hold on. . .” The clerk punched the buttons on her phone.
“She stole my cigarettes! Bitch!”
Anya steadfastly tried to ignore the brittle old woman, who was leaning across the desk at her, craning her neck to stare up at her with beady bird eyes.
“Give ’em back!”
Sparky bellied up to the old woman and bit her foot. The old woman jerked back, falling in a sprawl of twisted limbs. The hem of her hospital gown flipped up over her head and she screeched incoherently. Out of the corner of her eye, Anya saw Sparky scamper away with a pink sock in his mouth. Her mouth hardened and she willed herself not to turn around. She leaned forward on the counter, shielding her eyes from the old woman’s ectoplasmic nudity with one hand. The old lady’s screaming was drawing the attention of other
Anya steeled herself, gripping the steering wheel of her car in the parking garage of Detroit Receiving Hospital. She never took a spirit unless there was no other choice. But in these places, the spirits could behave badly. She would have to ignore the trouble they caused, trying to catch her attention.
She stepped out of the Dart and slammed the door. The solid sound echoed across the cavernous garage like a summons and she swore she could hear rustling somewhere below her. The salamander collar on her throat warmed. She felt Sparky stir, his ear-gills perking up. The familiar spirit would be riding shotgun on this one; there was no way she could imagine Sparky wouldn’t feel compelled to sniff at the strange spirits and gnaw on expensive electronic equipment.
He unfurled from her throat, sliding down her back, and took shape on the floor of the parking garage. He looked up at her, tongue flicking.
“Be good, Sparky,” she murmured. “I’m at work, so keep a low profile.”
Anya turned to walk toward the parking garage elevators. Sparky kept pace with her, his hips swishing side to side as he came to heel. He was trying very hard to be wellbehaved. She’d see how long this would last.
She stepped into the elevator and punched the button for the ground floor. Sparky reached up and licked the grimy button. The light behind the button dimmed.
“Sparky,” she hissed.
His feathery ear-fronds laid back, Sparky put his head down between his front feet, chastened.
The doors opened to the ER lobby, and Anya groaned inwardly. The lobby was full of living patients perched in chairs and wheelchairs, with doctors and nurses milling calmly around them. A young woman with needle tracks on her arm was retching in a trashcan. A mother yelled at her son for sticking a marble up his nose, threatening to slap it out of him. A man wearing a business suit stared blankly at the soaps on the television in the waiting area. He was restrained to a gurney, and his hands were bound with heavy gauze mittens.
These things didn’t disturb her nearly as much as the translucent spirit of the elderly lady with the bowl of Jell-O on her head. She screamed at Anya from the information desk, shaking her fragile fists in wrath. She wore pink fuzzy socks and a hospital gown open in the back to expose buttocks sliding down toward the backs of her knees.
She pointed her finger at Anya and howled, “That’s the one! That’s the nurse who stole my cigarettes!”
Anya inwardly resolved not to react to the woman. She strode deliberately to the information desk and spoke quietly to the clerk. “I’m here to see Steve Neuman, please.”
“I’m sorry,” the clerk answered, paging through her clipboard. “He’s in the burn unit, and no visitors are allowed. Are you family?”
Anya flipped out her badge. “I’m with DFD. I promise that I’ll be brief.”
“Hold on. . .” The clerk punched the buttons on her phone.
“She stole my cigarettes! Bitch!”
Anya steadfastly tried to ignore the brittle old woman, who was leaning across the desk at her, craning her neck to stare up at her with beady bird eyes.
“Give ’em back!”
Sparky bellied up to the old woman and bit her foot. The old woman jerked back, falling in a sprawl of twisted limbs. The hem of her hospital gown flipped up over her head and she screeched incoherently. Out of the corner of her eye, Anya saw Sparky scamper away with a pink sock in his mouth. Her mouth hardened and she willed herself not to turn around. She leaned forward on the counter, shielding her eyes from the old woman’s ectoplasmic nudity with one hand. The old lady’s screaming was drawing the attention of other
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