Deadly Dozen: 12 Mysteries/Thrillers (190 page)

But Hippocrates was a mere human with a limited perspective.

Nick stepped up to the door—right into the dark cloud.

Which to his surprise changed into a white vapor that rushed past him, sending a refreshing mist onto his face, and went straight through the huge glass window at the end of the hall.

That sort of thing had never happened before.

But it didn’t matter. He had an assignment to complete and had already lost too much ground.

He knocked on the door of room 310. When he got no answer after several tries, he placed his ear against its smooth painted surface and listened.

No sound.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

THE DOOR WAS LOCKED. He’d have to pass through. It used to be simple, but lately, passing through solid material felt like rubbing against sandpaper. He’d started managing it faster to shorten the pain of scraping between the physical and spiritual layers, but the benefit was small and in any case cancelled out by the fact that the pain kept escalating.

This time it felt as though his skin was peeling off, all over his body. The pain was so intense he could barely think. But finally, he passed through into the room.

Teleportation was so much simpler.

Wrapped in a white terrycloth robe, Hope sat on the bed, facing the window. In her open palm lay a pile of pills. A capsized bottle lay on the bed with its top off, more pills spilling out onto the sheets. A large bottle of Arrowhead Water stood on the nightstand.

It was the first time he’d seen her bathed and out of her filthy clothes—he wouldn’t have known her. Her wavy hair flowed just past her shoulders and glowed in the sunlight. The very sight of her eased Nick’s still painful skin to the point that he forgot about it.

But he couldn’t forget that the beauty of a mortal had once nearly destroyed him. And he could hear Lena telling him,
You’ve got till midnight to
persuade
her.

Somehow, Hope had managed to get hold of pills that were about to make his job incredibly easy for him. Which didn’t make him feel any better. It made him feel something close to the despair on this beautiful young woman’s face.

You’re not causing her death. It’s her own doing. You’re just keeping her on track.

Right. Just think of how many you’re saving by simply nudging her to do what she’s going to do anyway. She must really be dangerous—there were no guardian angels protecting her or trying to convince her not to go through with it.

Hope let out a heavy sigh. She didn’t seem like the kind of homeless person who talked to herself—there was too much clarity in her eyes—so Nick prepared to listen in on her thoughts. Thoughts he’d have to collude with in order to encourage her to go through with it and swallow the pills.

Thoughts, as it turned out, he’d never heard nor heard of in the thousands of years he’d roamed the earth.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

PERCEIVING THE SPIRITUAL REALM IS NOT for the faint of heart.

Even if you’re an angel.

But for a human unequipped and unprepared, the lifting of the veil that separates the two realms can cause sheer madness. Nick had witnessed this first-hand in England. The very recollection was like ripping open an old wound.

What he now saw pouring out of Hope and surrounding her as she buried her head in her hands was neither angels nor demons. They were people. Humans. Not their physical form but her memories of them, their essence.

First a man dressed as though he were from the 1970s stood over her and said, “
It wasn’t the cancer, Hope. I died because of you. What father with such a pathetic daughter would want to live?
”

She didn’t lift her head, didn’t look at the man. The only sound she made was a bitter sob.

Her father’s apparition faded into a bruised purple vapor and disappeared into her ear. And now sitting on the bed next to her was the phantasm of a woman, her face and arms covered with black and blue patches and cuts.
“Sweetie, if you’d been a good girl Daddy would have stayed. And Thomas wouldn’t have touched you or beaten you. I deserved what I got, that’s why I never said anything when he did it to me.”

Hope winced, cried out, and threw her hands up as if to block an onslaught of ravens.

Though the voices from within her were doing a fine job helping him complete his assignment, they infuriated Nick.

Others came out and accused. Finally they all surrounded her, talking over each other, stabbing prosecutorial fingers at her. The last tormentor floated out of Hope’s body and stood before her. She was the very image of Hope.

“You’re some kind of masochist to keep holding onto a life that gives you nothing but suffering. If there even is a God, he must hate you. Why else would he allow you to suffer like this? All those emails and phone calls to Hartwell Ministry’s life-line? Nothing’s ever changed, nothing ever will. You know why. Because you’re worthless and your life is meaningless. Stop being a coward and end it.”

These were not demons but internal thoughts, voices that resounded in Hope’s soul like cymbals struck over and over. No human could face them for long without losing her sanity—it was hard enough just listening to them. All Nick had to do was turn his head, shut his eyes, even leave the room and come back to find her dead, dark reapers taking her spirit to the Terminus. Thankfully, he’d never have to deal with that sort of business again.

Hope lifted her head and stared at the handful of pills.

Nick’s chest tightened. He tried to hold onto Lena’s warnings like a handrail on a subway staircase slick with rain.

Nearly a dozen of Hope’s inner voices surrounded her, chanting in a whisper:

“Do it...

do it...

do it...”

Faster and faster they spun, all speaking at once in a dissonant cacophony that resembled a profound electrical buzz. Then, in one collective scream, they shot into her head through the ears and eyes and mouth.

She gasped.

And brought the pills to her mouth.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

HOPE GRABBED THE BOTTLED WATER from the night stand, twisted the top open with her free hand, and gulped down the pills in her mouth. She gagged a little, and a couple of wet pills slipped out. Quickly she downed the next handful, gathered from the bed.

And the next.

And the next.

Though there were still some pills left, she’d taken most of them. She lay back in the bed, hugging the pillow.

A painful ache overtook her.

It wasn’t from the drugs. It was because of the image in her mind.

Her little daughter. That one refreshing dewdrop in the desert of her life.

Hope squeezed her eyes shut. But as the sorrow enveloped her, she saw her little girl’s face again.

She could barely inhale.

But as she let the breath out she whispered, “Chloe.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

“CHLOE?” NICK WHISPERED. Yes, that was the name she’d spoken.

He rushed over to the bed and turned Hope over. Pushed her hair, still damp, from her face. Tried to get her to speak.

“Hope?”

He patted her face.

“Come on!” He picked up the empty pill bottle and patted her face repeatedly. “Hope Matheson!”

For a brief moment, she opened her eyes.

Ignoring a sharp pain piercing the center of his head, he drew on all his strength to create a mini-construct that slowed time enough for him to gaze into her eyes before she shut them again.

Just long enough to tell.

He had suspected before, but now that he’d gotten a good look at her eyes he was certain.

It
was
her—the mother of the last subject he’d taken to the Terminus, the adorable little girl who brought back such painful memories he’d had to resign from the reaper work.

Hope had emerald eyes, just like…Not for a hundred years had he felt this way for anyone, much less a mortal. Now he knew why he didn’t want to let her go.

“Come on, Hope. Hang on.”

But the construct fell apart even as his strength ebbed. Her eyes rolled back and shut.

Exhausted, Nick fell to his knees at the bed.

He reached out and gently cupped her face, which felt cold and moist. If he could just heal her...

You’re in enough trouble as it is!

But if she died, the dark reapers would come for her.

Think.
If he failed this assignment again, then broke the angelic laws against unauthorized healing, he himself might be the one taken by the dark reapers.

Tormented, he grappled with the decision.

Then, placing a hand on Hope’s forehead, he reached inside her mind and projected a sliver of a construct. One that didn’t task all of her five senses, just enough to cause the necessary effect.

He grabbed the trash can under the nightstand and held it at the edge of the bed.

Hope lurched forward and let out a horrendous retching sound.

Carefully, Nick lifted and turned her head so that she vomited only into the can. With each heave she tossed out a mixture of water and pills, some partially dissolved.

Nick turned away. Of all possible times to be experiencing the full extent of human olfactory senses, why did it have to be now? He looked back to check on her.

Not done retching yet, but nothing was coming up now. He patted her back, told her she’d be all right. She made a whining sound, then finished.

As she sat back, Nick grabbed a stack of tissues from the box and handed them to her. He sent a small healing pulse into her body from his fingertips as he brushed them across her face. Technically, he hadn’t healed her—though his hand did glow. The vomiting had. Helping her feel better wasn’t the same as healing her. Not exactly.

She looked into his face.

“Oh, my—it’s you, again, Clive.”

“I’m afraid so.
Clive
?”

She waved her hand. Never mind.

“How did you—?” She slapped her hand over her mouth, grabbed the trash can, and completed her sentence with a final dry heave.