apparitions; the phantom of a teenage kid with a chest full of gunshot wounds walked through a wall and gave Anya the once-over.
“Hey, princess.”
Anya ignored him, focused intently on the clerk talking into the phone. The clerk was wearing incredibly long, intricately airbrushed false fingernails. Anya wondered how she could type with those pink daggers glued to her hands.
“You stuck-up or somethin’?”
Anya continued to contemplate the clerk’s nails, wishing she’d hurry the hell up.
“Hey, I’m talking to you.” The spirit tried, unsuccessfully, to grasp her arm, and she felt a draft of cold air.
She turned to him, glowering.
“You need to smile, baby. Pretty girl like you should smile.” The kid grinned, showing her his custom-made golden grill. He leaned on the countertop beside her, his sagging jeans showing entirely too much skin. Anya rolled her eyes. If he’d been alive, she’d have told him to get his ass back to school. Now there was no point. His destiny was to hang out in the ER, hitting on chicks. She wondered if there were any ghost girls here his age or whether his only company was the crazy Jell-O lady.
“You can go back now,” the clerk told Anya, mercifully. “He’s in room 7-A. . . it’s the tank in the back. You can’t miss it.”
“Thank you so much.”
In her periphery, she could see the teenager sauntering over to hit on the girl throwing up in the trash can. The girl would have no idea he was there, but the kid needed all the practice he could get talking to women in the afterlife.
Anya slunk down the hall. She didn’t know where Sparky had run off to, but she hoped he wasn’t pulling the plug on somebody’s grandfather.
“Sparky,” she snarled.
A woman in a wheelchair turned around to stare at her and Anya tried to cover the snarl with a cough. Whose idea was it to have an uncontrollable familiar? This didn’t happen in books. Every witch and warlock in popular culture had familiars who did their bidding. She resolved—again—to try to introduce this concept to Sparky.
The giant salamander poked his head out from beneath a biohazard bin.
“Ew. Sparky, get out of there.” She didn’t know if salamanders could pick up communicable diseases, but that was certainly a good way to find out.
Sulking, the salamander waddled back to her side and looked up at her with eyes as unrepentant as marbles. The crazy ghost lady’s sock was gone. She could only assume that he’d eaten it.
Resolutely, Anya followed the signs to the burn unit. This wing’s atmosphere felt palpably heavier than the rest of the hospital, as if an enforced curtain of silence had been drawn around it. Even the spirits here were quieter: she glimpsed one staring out a window; another lay in an unoccupied bed, staring up at the ceiling, lips melted shut. The ghost of a woman holding an infant walked down the hallway, humming a soft lullaby.
Anya turned away. Long ago, she’d promised herself that she wouldn’t interfere with spirits who weren’t disturbing humans. But she felt sorry for the ones that seemed trapped in loops of time, reliving painful hours for years without end.
She rounded the corner to what might have been a renovated neonatal unit, windows looking into a glass fishbowl full of technologically arcane equipment studded with lights and dials. Medical personnel swam around the obstacles in masks and green scrubs. Inside, in a bed covered by an oxygen tent, she saw a body swathed in gauze. The figure’s eyes were taped shut, a tube extending from its mouth. It looked like a scene from an alien autopsy show, all shiny and sterile and raw.
Anya pressed her fingers to the glass. Neuman was clearly in no condition to talk. . . if he ever would be. She saw no trace of a spirit lurking around the plastic tent. That meant Neuman’s spirit had either moved on or was still locked away in his body.
“They’re keeping him sedated. . . on paralytics,
“Hey, princess.”
Anya ignored him, focused intently on the clerk talking into the phone. The clerk was wearing incredibly long, intricately airbrushed false fingernails. Anya wondered how she could type with those pink daggers glued to her hands.
“You stuck-up or somethin’?”
Anya continued to contemplate the clerk’s nails, wishing she’d hurry the hell up.
“Hey, I’m talking to you.” The spirit tried, unsuccessfully, to grasp her arm, and she felt a draft of cold air.
She turned to him, glowering.
“You need to smile, baby. Pretty girl like you should smile.” The kid grinned, showing her his custom-made golden grill. He leaned on the countertop beside her, his sagging jeans showing entirely too much skin. Anya rolled her eyes. If he’d been alive, she’d have told him to get his ass back to school. Now there was no point. His destiny was to hang out in the ER, hitting on chicks. She wondered if there were any ghost girls here his age or whether his only company was the crazy Jell-O lady.
“You can go back now,” the clerk told Anya, mercifully. “He’s in room 7-A. . . it’s the tank in the back. You can’t miss it.”
“Thank you so much.”
In her periphery, she could see the teenager sauntering over to hit on the girl throwing up in the trash can. The girl would have no idea he was there, but the kid needed all the practice he could get talking to women in the afterlife.
Anya slunk down the hall. She didn’t know where Sparky had run off to, but she hoped he wasn’t pulling the plug on somebody’s grandfather.
“Sparky,” she snarled.
A woman in a wheelchair turned around to stare at her and Anya tried to cover the snarl with a cough. Whose idea was it to have an uncontrollable familiar? This didn’t happen in books. Every witch and warlock in popular culture had familiars who did their bidding. She resolved—again—to try to introduce this concept to Sparky.
The giant salamander poked his head out from beneath a biohazard bin.
“Ew. Sparky, get out of there.” She didn’t know if salamanders could pick up communicable diseases, but that was certainly a good way to find out.
Sulking, the salamander waddled back to her side and looked up at her with eyes as unrepentant as marbles. The crazy ghost lady’s sock was gone. She could only assume that he’d eaten it.
Resolutely, Anya followed the signs to the burn unit. This wing’s atmosphere felt palpably heavier than the rest of the hospital, as if an enforced curtain of silence had been drawn around it. Even the spirits here were quieter: she glimpsed one staring out a window; another lay in an unoccupied bed, staring up at the ceiling, lips melted shut. The ghost of a woman holding an infant walked down the hallway, humming a soft lullaby.
Anya turned away. Long ago, she’d promised herself that she wouldn’t interfere with spirits who weren’t disturbing humans. But she felt sorry for the ones that seemed trapped in loops of time, reliving painful hours for years without end.
She rounded the corner to what might have been a renovated neonatal unit, windows looking into a glass fishbowl full of technologically arcane equipment studded with lights and dials. Medical personnel swam around the obstacles in masks and green scrubs. Inside, in a bed covered by an oxygen tent, she saw a body swathed in gauze. The figure’s eyes were taped shut, a tube extending from its mouth. It looked like a scene from an alien autopsy show, all shiny and sterile and raw.
Anya pressed her fingers to the glass. Neuman was clearly in no condition to talk. . . if he ever would be. She saw no trace of a spirit lurking around the plastic tent. That meant Neuman’s spirit had either moved on or was still locked away in his body.
“They’re keeping him sedated. . . on paralytics,
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