Anne Brontë Nightwalker

Chapter 7

"Take off your parka," I order Garrick. He gives me a perplexed look but obeys. He is wearing a grey, long-sleeved waffle t-shirt with a radiological symbol splashed across his chest. For someone so young, his shoulders are broad. I take his arm in my hands and slide his shirt up his bicep, grab a tourniquet and secure it.

"You gonna stick me?" he asks, sounding alarmed.

"I'll be fast."

He looks nervous. "Is this really necessary? I'm not crazy about needles."

"The hospital might need to give you medication for the pain."

"It really doesn't hurt that much," he offers. Ever so slightly, he tries to pull away but I hold him firmly in my grip.

His veins are full and plump. The blood courses through them beneath my fingers, teasing me. I plunge in the needle, then pull it out, leaving a soft catheter. Grabbing blood tubes, I pierce the vials and watch them fill with blood, deep red and luminescent. The color of sunrise and death.

"How much you gonna take?"

This is the problem with the wealthy. They're always asking questions, demanding to be informed of one's every move. The poor don't question me like this. I want to reach for the three clean tubes that rest in my pocket, free of the preserving chemicals the other tubes have, but Garrick will not stop watching me. I slip back behind his head as if I'm reaching for something and grab the tubes.

Now is my turn. I fill my vials as Garrick watches. He is unusual. Most people afraid of needles do not look so closely.

"If you're afraid of needles, why do you watch?"

"Because I'm afraid." He looks at me and grins.

I finish and connect the IV tubing to the catheter in his vein. Next I take vitals and get a patient history. This is completely backwards, but I will not let this opportunity to feed pass me by. Three vials will hardly make a dent in my hunger, so far have I let it slide, but they'll sustain me until I can feed again, hopefully soon.

When we arrive at the hospital, Dana helps me roll Garrick inside while she scans for Dr. Webb. The intake nurse, whom Dana has taken to surreptitiously calling Nurse Ratched, looks at me like I'm crazy for starting an IV and transporting a boy with a scraped knee. Normally, I do not make such poor transport decisions, but my hunger has rendered me desperate. I contemplate keeping all the blood tubes and choking down the five full of chemicals even though they taste like rat poison. If I can get it down, my body cuts through the nasty peripherals straight to the hemoglobin.

The ER is quiet and the nurse has no reason to complain about this transport, yet she gives me a critical look anyway as we roll Garrick into a room and I give the report, emphasizing the exceptional tenderness to his knee and that I suspect a possible fractured patella. Her brow creases as she listens, an indication of doubt she does not voice.

I've survived this profession for so long because of my unnatural talents. I don't call in sick or take vacation. I can smell illness that others cannot see. From working in countless wars, I can cut and sew and clamp. Since 1853, I've been ministering to the sick and injured. I may not have not seen everything, but I've seen enough to diagnose the mysterious and save the unsalvageable. Despite my frosty personality and unusual solar affliction, my supervisor adores me, gladly working around my unorthodox schedule, having me relieved without fail an hour before sunrise.

Tonight however, I've compromised my reputation. My freedom to work unsupervised and unquestioned is firmly rooted in the trust of those with whom I work, and by the look in the nurse's eye, I've now injected doubt into the equation. This never would have happened if I hadn't stopped hunting in the wild. A deer would sustain me for weeks. Charlotte always warned, if I'm not careful, I'll die of idealism.

My fingers wrap around the blood tubes about to hand them over, yet I hesitate.

I cannot bring another unmerited patient here tonight without raising undue suspicion and I cannot count on the calls continuing to come.

I release the tubes and let them rest against my thigh, warm in my pocket. Making an effort to slow my movement to human standards, I head to the truck, where I will knock the blood back fast as a shot of scotch.

"Medic!" A voice cuts through the ER's hush. I turn to see Dr. Webb with an irritated look in his eye marching toward me. This is a first.

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

"No," I say carefully.

"The blood. Give it to me. I want it all."