The Isis Collar (Blood Singer #4) 4

I could tell the zombie I was staring at was female simply because of the curves and tatters of the skirt covering the blackened lesions on a background of red and purple oozing skin. The eyes were white and unseeing as the zombie walked around the room, searching for … well, I don’t know what. “What is she looking for?”

Dr. Swanson looked at me significantly. “A victim. Someone to bite or scratch to transmit the infection. She won’t find one, of course, unless someone is foolish enough to go inside. We had to nearly restrain her adult daughter from opening the door.”

I shuddered to think what I would do if it was my gran inside that room. Would I care about the obvious necrotic skin, or would I run to her to envelop her in a hug? Scary. “Why is she even here? What are you going to do with her?”

He let out a huff of frustration. “Good question. I haven’t a clue. In Sudan, we would have lassoed her and dragged her into a fire to cleanse the infection. But since she was a patient here when she died, the hospital’s hands are tied. She’s still mobile, despite the fact there are no brain waves or heartbeat. They have to worry about the family suing if they make the wrong choice about what to do. In my opinion, she should be burned.”

“But what if she can be healed, like me?” Was it just luck I was given the treatment? Would this doctor have denied me that?

“There was no saving her once she arrived. I would have moved heaven and earth for her if she’d had vital signs when she arrived. She didn’t. But the staff here has no concept of this infection. They put her in the morgue until I happened to pick up her chart and read the symptoms. I ran downstairs and managed to get the body before it became animated again. The bacteria took over once she was in this room. Thankfully, the staff who came into contact have received the antibiotic.” It was at that moment that the corpse ran into the window, making me jump back for no reason. Just creeped out, I guess.

“Who was she? I’m worried I might know her.” I had a sickening feeling I’d seen that skirt set before.

Dr. Swanson furrowed his brow for a moment. “Sanchez, I think. She worked at a local grade school.”

Bile rose into my throat. Jamisyn said she’d died. And as I looked into the swollen white eyes above oozing black pustules and split lips, I realized the truth.

He’d been right.

15

Saturday was a strange day. I had nightmares all night, waking up screaming multiple times. I couldn’t remember the dreams, but I remembered the voice. The witch was there, taunting me, whispering to go out and hunt people. But I wouldn’t. I couldn’t.

Maybe after everything that happened yesterday, that was a good thing. Dawna had been in the waiting room, pacing. I changed into the new pants in the bathroom and not even her joking about my cut-up jeans being a hot new fashion statement could pull me out of dark and scary thoughts.

Worse still was the morning news programs, which stated M. necrose had broken out in Denver and Daytona Beach, two of the first cities where the bombs had gone off. They didn’t actually say the disease’s name but requested that children and school workers with “suspicious bruises” please check with their local doctors.

Crap. Children were falling victim now. There were special news bulletins on the radio and television, and the small units the CMDC had originally set up to deal with the few adults who’d been dying mysteriously were suddenly overwhelmed by the sheer number of victims. Parents of children from other schools were screaming for information. The press were having a field day. The authorities were managing to keep it contained enough that it wasn’t quite panic and pandemonium, but it was getting close.

Of course it was worse because it was kids.

Which was, no doubt, exactly why they’d been the target.

Rizzoli didn’t come by. He did call. He was madder than hell, too. His intuition told him to go back and talk to the security guard, but Jamisyn was missing. And since there was no hard evidence tying him to the bombs, or the outbreaks, it was only Rizzoli’s gut making him want to track Jamisyn down. Apparently, Rizzoli wasn’t able to convince the higher-ups to let him chase down that particular lead.

It was enough to make me sick. If the headache hadn’t already done it. I was incredibly grateful that the pain in my leg and arm was gone. But the headache stubbornly persisted. What I really wanted was a hot bath. Soak out the tension, wash the hair, and generally try to reverse my crappy mood. I took my phone with me so I could check e-mails and try to reach John. Although … calling John while I was naked and in bubbly water seemed to be inviting trouble. I might tell him and he might drive over and—

Oh, that could be fun. The kind of fun that made me shiver deliciously.

I gave myself a little mental slap. Okay, so I wouldn’t call John. But I did need to call Bruno. He definitely needed to be updated on last night. I’d left him a message after I been released from the hospital, but it just went to voice mail. No doubt the spell had taken longer than planned. I hoped nothing had gone wrong.

Of course, thinking about Bruno put my mind right back where it had been, because he and I had taken long, hot baths together. Very, very hot ones.

But … had he taken baths with evil siren princess Eirene, too?

Crap.

Was Bruno addicted to sirens? Could I trust anything he said since he wasn’t wearing the anti-influence charm I’d given him? I leaned back into the bubbles and decided that as much fun as it might be to invite one or the other over, it wasn’t a good time. Not in my day, or really in my life.

I needed to focus. I opened a new e-mail. Then I started typing with both thumbs while the heat from the water soaked into my neck and back. I typed up my e-mail to Drs. Gaetano and Jean-Baptiste, doing exactly what they’d suggested. I’d already taken copious vitamins, continued to break open memory charms, and waited to hear from John.

I was just up to the events in Levy’s shop—and had noted disturbing lapses of memory where I couldn’t remember all the details of an event—when the temperature in the room abruptly dropped. A presence entered the room; it was small and quick and agitated, flitting around in a frenzy of movement. A ricochet rabbit of energy. The lights above me began to flicker and spark, causing me to leap out of the water with a splash and a burst of bubbles. Wouldn’t that be an annoying way to die … electrocuted by a ghost? I looked up at the spirit while I moved to dry floor and wrapped a towel around myself. “Ivy? Is that you?”

The entity stopped moving but continued to flicker and quiver. The lights flicked off. Once, for yes. It must be her. She was using our old code, developed when we were children. It only worked with yes or no questions, but we could generally communicate. “Is something wrong?”

One blink.

“Do you need my help?”

One blink.

“Is it about Mom?”

One blink.

Crap. There was nothing I could do for our mother. Ivy had discovered she could “haunt” someone in the family other than me when Mom wound up in jail after her third DWI. Mom’s a siren, too, and being in jail, away from the water, threatened to kill her. It had been a startling discovery. I’d appealed to Queen Lopaka and managed to get Mom relocated to the Isle of Serenity, where she could get treatment for her alcoholism and serve out her sentence near salt water.

I let out a sigh. “Ivy—” I paused. Okay, I’d give my little sister the benefit of the doubt. This was the first time she’d come to me since Mom had been transferred to the island. “Is she hurt?”

A pause and then two blinks. No.

“Sick?”

Apparently that was more complicated, because Ivy didn’t know how to respond. The light flickered wildly for a moment but then went dark. “Is she scared? Worried?”

Now a single definitive blink.

That’s what I was afraid of. I put the toilet lid down and sat. “Okay. Hon, listen to me. We both know Mom is sick. When she doesn’t drink, she hurts. The withdrawal hurts. You know that, right?”

A tentative single flick.

“That’s why she’s in a place where she can get help. Are they talking to her about her drinking?”

A single blink followed by a wild series of flickers.

“Ivy. Stop. Are they helping her, even if she’s sick?”

A blink.

“There’s nothing I can do, hon. I want to help her. I do. But even Gran can’t help now. She has to go through this all by herself and that will be hard. She’ll be angry and scared and will cry and rant before it’s done and she’s better. But you don’t have to watch. That’s too much to ask of you. Maybe you should not go back for a while. Would that be easier?”

It was hard to talk esoteric stuff with Ivy. Emotionally, she was stuck at eight years old, and her grasp of adult quandaries was limited. “Would you rather stay here with me for a few weeks until she’s better? We can play that video game you like.”

A long pause. Then the lights started flickering again, so fast it looked like Morse code on angel dust. The bulb finally gave out in a bright flash before going black. Then Ivy disappeared in a burst of ectoplasm. I’d never seen her do that before. It would disappear eventually, but the jellylike substance near the ceiling was a reminder that even a ghostly sister can stomp out of a room and slam the door.

I sighed and looked around for my phone, hoping to finish the e-mail before the battery died. I realized that my sudden exit from the water had knocked my phone into the water. Damn it. At least it was floating, screen side down, among the bubbles. Maybe the battery and memory card hadn’t been damaged too badly. I carefully plucked it out of the water and immediately put it facedown on a towel to pull out what water I could. When I carefully turned it on its side to get a look at the front, water dripped out and the screen was dark.

I let out a sigh and took it with me to the bedroom after sopping up the spilled water on the floor with another towel. It would be just my luck today to go to put on my makeup, slip on the spill, and crack my head open.