Sixth Sense: Symbiotics, #6

Chapter One

Sight

Jim Goddard wandered restlessly around his room, glowering at the array of items he’d amassed since he’d arrived. The exercise weights, laptop, electronic tablet, and flat-screen TV would all go into the incinerator after he left, or so they’d told him. He’d gladly leave everything behind for the chance to walk out of this place. He paced again. This close to his release, his restlessness was killing him. Nothing kept his interest anymore. He paused to straighten a weight and stepped back. Better.

A flicker of movement caught his attention. Something happening, at long last. Wasting no time, he strode to the door leading to that mythical place, the outside world. Nothing. Just a blank, narrow hallway beyond the circular window. The other room? It had been empty since his arrival, or at least since he’d recovered enough to take an interest in his surroundings.

With excitement mounting inside him like a child’s on Christmas morning, he turned and peered through the porthole-shaped, double-glazed window set in the door connecting the two rooms.

Someone lay in the bed. From the delicate backbone revealed by the hospital-issue gown gaping open at the back and the long hair, he could say for sure it was a woman. The crisp white sheet lay smoothly over her, a bulge lower down indicating a cage holding the sheet off her body. They’d tilted the bed, and it appeared they’d lifted her feet higher than her head. Couldn’t be comfortable. She had her back to him. Her hair was half-tied back in an unruly swath, tumbling down her shoulder in a pale, ruffled cloud.

Turn around. He willed her with everything he had. He ached to see her, someone other than one of the friendly but impersonal nurses who came in every day to take his blood and give him food. He’d found another prisoner. Another sufferer. He was officially in isolation, nobody allowed to visit him until they declared him clean, like he was some kind of pariah.

She was moving, at least. Not dead yet, then. It took a few seconds for him to realize her shoulders were shaking. She was laughing or crying. He’d go with crying. Nothing much to laugh about in this place. A powerful urge to hold her, to tell her everything was going to be all right, took him by surprise. But he hated standing here, watching her cry without any chance of helping her.

Turn around.

Her long, sleek body stirred, and she moved a little as if she sensed his presence. Impossible, surely.

Turn around. Look at me.

POPPY SWALLOWED TO force back her tears. They wouldn’t do her any good; they’d just make her eyes sore. After she’d undressed and put on the blue-and-white paper gown, leaving her personal belongings and street clothes in the locker outside felt like one more step toward becoming an anonymous thing, a number. Were it not for her plastic wristband, she could be anyone. At least they’d know who she was in the morgue. She wouldn’t get mixed up with some other poor sod.

Shock still resonated through every cell in her body. This morning all she’d had was a small cut on her foot, and now her entire world had changed. Or what was left of it. Her mind reeled from the swiftness of events. This morning she’d gone into work, and an hour later visited the bathroom, where she’d emptied herself so violently it had scared her. Then her leg had swelled up. Her boss had found her and sent for the ambulance. After that, everything had happened so fast it had blurred into a long streak of sheer terror. Now here she was, no personal belongings, no idea what was wrong with her, only that it was serious and she’d had no inkling of it yesterday.

The doctors had said she might die, although they hadn’t meant her to hear that part as they murmured the information to her boss. She wondered if this was how Typhoid Mary had felt when she went on the lam, scared of the illness she didn’t understand or want. People talking about her, locking her up, not telling her anything. Talking about her but not to her.

No point crying. It wouldn’t change a thing. Resolving to stop sniveling, she used the sheet to dry her eyes. Then she picked up the book, which, with the TV, was her only distraction, and rolled onto her back.

Pain shot through her leg, her nerves went on high alert, and the book fell from her hands, over the bed rail, and to the floor with a heavy thump. Out of reach. Only the TV left. Her attention went to where the paperback had fallen. Dare she move to pick it up, or could she hook it with something? She heaved a sigh. Ah well, it was a crappy story anyway. She breathed her way through the pain until it receded. It wasn’t so bad when she kept still.

A shadow moving on the floor put her on alert, and her gaze shot up to its origin.

Watching her through the porthole-shaped window set in the door connecting this room to the next one was a man. Correction, a gorgeous man. Dark, brooding, magnificent. Must be tall, from the height of the window and his position behind it. The top of the frame blocked her view of the top of his head. She saw hunger in his lean features, though for what she didn’t know.

Oh, fucking terrific. A day with no possibility of getting worse had just hit a patch of ice and skidded out of control. Here she was, bare-faced, hair a tangle, dressed in a sack, facing the most handsome male she’d ever seen in her life. She should be scared, but too much had happened to her today. She was fresh out of scared. What remained of her vanity kicked in with a sickening jolt, like a kick to her stomach, which was already sore from throwing up earlier.

Her first reaction was to grab the sheet and haul it to her neck. She’d have covered her face and smoothed her hair, but she didn’t have enough hands and it would be useless anyway. Dressed normally, with a good ’do and a bit of makeup, she might have stood a chance, but now he’d seen her like this and she’d be kidding herself if she imagined he’d be interested in her sexually. A shame, because even in her current, miserable condition, he sure as hell interested her.

He was simply smoking hot. She could only see his face and the tops of muscular, bare shoulders, which were a glorious healthy color, sheened by the light from behind him. His hair was tousled, too long for fashion, but it gleamed under the bright lights, midbrown with what looked like natural gold touches. He had dark eyes, black or brown maybe. The opposite of her washed-out looks. Pale skin with no roses in her cheeks, pale hair with no richness in it, pale eyes that could appear transparent and put people off.

Not him, it seemed. He stared into her eyes, bathed in them as if starving for human contact, and immediately she understood exactly how he felt. She’d only been here since late this morning, and already she was beginning to understand how severe a punishment solitary confinement must be.

Her lips twitched, turning up in a polite smile, her manners coming to the fore in this bizarre situation. He smiled back. Now she had a new reason to stare.

A wonderful, carefree expression lit his face, sudden as summer lightning. The slashes on either side of his mouth transformed into dimples, and his eyes gleamed. Twinkled. The result of the bright lights on those dark pupils probably. No other explanation. Oh yeah, she could tell herself that until she turned blue, but she wouldn’t believe it.

She forgot about crying as she gazed at him. They stared at each other, greedy for contact. Strangers in adjoining rooms with different problems, different lives but in this instant, sharing the experience as nobody else could. This unique moment belonged to them and them alone.

Abruptly he moved away from the window. Just like that, her problems surged in again, pushing her newer, more optimistic mood aside as if it had never existed. But when he returned, she calmed instantly, his smile reassuring her he wouldn’t leave again. He held up a black rectangle. A mobile phone.

They let him have one of those? She’d left hers in the locker with the rest of her stuff. She shook her head, spreading her hands to show the absence of a phone or anything else, come to that.

Poppy indicated her book on the floor, then waved the plastic-swathed TV remote. They were all she had. She put the remote down, wondering if she could reach her book with it. No, she might lose that as well.

Feeling foolish, she waved, giving the tiniest flicker of her fingers, a flirtatious move she felt stupid for trying as soon as she’d done it. With her looking this way, he wouldn’t want to know that side of her. She didn’t blame him. In this gray-painted room, with its off-white tiled floors, she’d disappear into the walls if she stayed still long enough.

He waved back, then held up a hand in a gesture that said Wait. Then he lifted his phone to his ear and spoke. She couldn’t hear a thing. The room and the glass made her feel like a goldfish in a bowl, especially with the camera high in one corner, its soulless red eye trained on the bed. For her benefit, they said. She imagined herself raving in delirium, falling to the floor, or her leg, so red and swollen, actually bursting. Her skin felt so stretched she was scared it might split, spilling her insides and whatever had made it like this. It had blown up like a balloon, getting bigger under her eyes with a lack of warning that terrified her. When she could think past the pain, that was. She had no idea what painkillers the medical staff had given her, but her leg still hurt. Who knew what agony she’d suffer once they’d worn off? She had a cannula in her hand, but after giving her saline to rehydrate her, they’d taken it out. They didn’t want, they said, to give her too much until they knew what was wrong with her.

But at least she had something interesting to look at.

A clatter of keys and sudden noise made her start and turn her attention to the other door, the one that led Outside.

A masked and gowned nurse strode in, purpose in every step. Judging from the way the woman’s eyes creased at the corners, Poppy knew she was smiling, but it was probably a professional smile. A man, also masked and in blue scrubs, followed her, wheeling a trolley containing a screen of some kind.

This is Jeff from the radiology department. We want to do a test, the nurse said. We’ll inject dye into your leg and examine it on the screen. We usually do this downstairs in the radiology department, but we don’t want to take you out of here. In case she had the plague, Poppy presumed.

The nurse glanced at the floor and tutted, collected the book and handed it back. Poppy clung to it like it held the answers to the origin of the universe. Once we’ve excluded the existence of blood clots, you can move about a bit if you want to. But not until then. Her Texan accent reminded Poppy of how far away she was from home, how excited she’d been to get here, and now how lonely the lack of a plain Sheffield accent made her feel. Isolated for real, alone like never before.

She swallowed. What if there is a clot? Without thought, she glanced at the connecting door.

Her neighbor was still there, his brow creased in concern. The nurse turned and saw him. She batted him away with a flapping gesture, but he ignored it, only gave her a bland smile. Shall we draw the blind?

No, no, please don’t. She said it too quickly, too eagerly. What’s his name?

I can’t tell you. Patient confidentiality.

You can tell him mine if he asks. Just my first name. No harm in that, surely. She fought her instinct to keep everything to herself, an instinct born from extreme caution necessary until recently. She refused to let her past rule her life now; she needed to move on. New city, new life, and it had worked out brilliantly until this morning.

The nurse gave Poppy’s neighbor another sharp glance. He probably wants someone to talk to other than us. He’s been here awhile.

Fuck, how long was awhile? How had he borne it? What’s wrong with him?

The nurse—Kasey, the badge on her uniform read—shrugged. Can’t tell you that either.

Can you tell me what’s wrong with me?

Kasey shook her head. Not yet. You’re here as a precaution until we get a better idea. A blood clot’s only one of the possibilities, but it’s something we can help with.

Poppy wasn’t entirely ignorant of medical procedure. And it’s urgent. You think I have thrombosis?

Possibly. But that doesn’t explain all your symptoms. She brightened and tacked on her professional smile once more, the corners of her eyes crinkling. Now, let’s find a vein, shall we? If we find a clot, we’ll take you into surgery and remove it. You never know. You might get to go home soon. She glanced at the cage. Or at least in a general section of the hospital where you’ll have people to talk to.

Kasey dropped the end of the metal bed. It fell with a clang, the echoes reverberating through the room. She lifted the sheet, folding it carefully over Poppy’s stomach. Then she lifted the cage.

Poppy turned her attention to the man at the window, because she didn’t want to see her leg anymore.

He was staring, any hint of humor she might have seen before gone in the bleakness of his gaze.

Poppy knew how it looked. The flesh from her knee downward was red and puffy, swollen and shiny, ready to explode. Ugly. She didn’t want him to see, but she wanted someone with her, a friend, a person not involved with her medical well-being. A civilian.

Get over it, Poppy. He’s just curious.

His interest returned to her face, and he kept her attention as they worked on her. She held on to his concerned gaze like an invisible lifeline, and he seemed to understand, lending her strength to bear her ordeal. Watching him gave her something pleasant to dream about. Thoughts of him gripping her hand through this. Better still, holding her in his arms and crooning comforting words. Someone to give it up to for a while, to share the burden. It sounded so fucking good right now.

Because the doctors had elevated her foot and kept it that way since they’d brought her in this morning, after they’d hoisted the bed up with the lever arrangement underneath it, the radiologist took some time finding a vein. She’d lain with her legs up for half a day, ever since they’d brought her in and done the preliminary X-rays. What did they expect? Blood to come gushing out? Her foot stung, attacked by a dozen bees, and every prick hurt a little more. But thanks to him, she didn’t react to the pain...much. Eventually the radiologist gave a triumphant cry.

She shivered when the cold dye streamed into her, but at least that meant no more needles. They’d put the screen to one side with its back to the window; she could watch it if she wanted. Branches of veins slowly became visible on the screen as the dye invaded her body. She watched the liquid course through her leg, almost restful in its inevitability. Even there the size of her swollen limb was glaringly evident. A kind of sick shame filled her, an awareness of the sheer hideousness of her appearance. Diseased, unclean. She dropped her chin and rested it against her chest.

She didn’t want to see her audience again, not after he’d witnessed the ugliness of her body. Stupid vanity, but at her lowest moment why did she have to encounter the hottest man she’d seen since arriving in Houston? And that was saying something. Houston had more than its fair share of hotties.

Although she kept her gaze averted, she felt a compulsion to turn her attention back to him, as if he was talking to her, ordering her to do it. She couldn’t resist—she turned her head, tilted her chin defiantly, met his gaze once more.

She saw no revulsion, none. Only sympathy and a horrified alertness. Not horror at her but at her injury, illness, whatever the fuck it was. She kept staring into his eyes, dark and concerned, while they examined her, prodded and stared. He helped her cope, endure the close examination and the exposure of her hideous problem. This man, whoever he was, became her friend in that time. Whatever else he was, she knew that for sure.

The radiologist passed verdict