Grave Witch

I tugged the pale hospital blanket tighter around me.

Several hours ago it had been a heated blanket, but now the charm keeping it warm had given out, and it was an ineffective bit of fabric guarding me from the frigid hospital air. The blanket was doing better than the openbacked gown, though. Shivering did little to improve my already rotten mood, and I forced myself to take a deep breath before answering Officer Hanson.

“I fell. I don’t know any other way to explain that to you.”

“Ms. Craft, you had half the city’s cameras pointed at you when the shot went off. I saw the film. You dove down those steps.”

My head snapped up.“Do you think I’d have this”—I lifted my soft-casted wrist—“and a dozen stitches in my forehead if I ‘dove’ out of the way like you say?”

He leaned forward, towering over me, and tapped the pen to his pad, a staccato of cheap plastic hitting paper.

I wasn’t impressed or intimidated. I was just irritated.

In fact, I’d had enough with his looming.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood.

The muscles in my thighs ached, my back protesting.

But, barefoot, I stood at eye level with Officer Hanson.

“I told you. I. Fell.”

His pen hung in midair a moment before tapping one more harsh note. Then his gaze dropped, and he closed the notebook. “Listen, Alex, we don’t think you had anything to do with it. We’re just trying to figure out what happened. Did you hear the shot? Did you see something? A suspicious car; a shadow on a roof? What made you dive down those stairs?”

“I—” What was I supposed to say: Death pushed me out of the way? That was a little outside a soul collector’s job description. No one would believe it. Hell, I barely did. “I’ve told you everything I remember.”

His lips pursed, but I was saved from his response by the arrival of my attending physician. He stepped around the curtain separating my bed from the rest of the ER and smiled. “Good news, Miss Craft. Your CT scan is clean, so I’m signing off on your release.” He made a note in my chart. “I want you wearing that brace for the next few weeks. Your stitches are dissolvable, so they won’t need to be removed. Just keep the wound clean. Any questions?”

I smiled. “Can you prescribe a ride home?”

I was joking—mostly—but Officer Hanson cleared his throat.“The sheriff thinks the shooting has something to with Amanda Holliday’s trial.The idea of a shade on the witness stand has caused a lot of controversy. The sheriff’s arranged for an officer to see you home and for an escort to the courthouse in the morning.”

“Uh … Thanks?” Could have mentioned that earlier.

You know, while he was grilling me like a suspect. I rubbed my good hand against my shoulder.The scratches still itched, but the doctor had assured me they weren’t serious. I looked up at Hanson. Hopefully he wasn’t my ride.

The doctor returned my chart to the foot of the bed and smiled. “A nurse will be by to check you out shortly. Have a good night, and try not to jump down any more stairs.”

I showed some teeth. “Right.” Does everyone think I dove out of the way of that bullet? I doubted I had the balls to take a bullet for someone else, but if I had known what was about to happen, I sure as hell would have warned John.

The doctor closed the curtain behind him, and I turned back to Hanson, waiting for the grilling to begin again.

He looked as weary as I felt. “If you remember anything, you’ll call the station?”

“First thing,” I promised, and I would. John was my friend. I’d do anything I could to help find who shot him.

Hell, it was in my best interest for the shooter to be behind bars if he’d truly been aiming at me. I’d call if I came up with even the thinnest clue. Not that I’d forgotten anything, but the next time I caught up with Death, I had a bagful of questions for him.

Hanson rubbed his eyes and put the small notepad in his breast pocket. “Go home and get some rest. An officer is waiting for you in the lobby.” His footsteps echoed on the linoleum as he disappeared around the curtain.

“Wait, what about some clothes?” Mine had been confiscated as evidence. I padded across the floor and ripped the curtain aside. “And I want to see John.”

Hanson was nowhere in sight, but I startled a nurse heading my way. Her eyes flew wide, but her smile never slipped as she held out a small pile of fabric. “These will get you home.”

Five minutes later I was dressed in purple polka-dot scrubs that fit like a pillowcase. At least the police had let me keep my boots. The knee-high black leather hid the fact the scrubs hit somewhere between my ankle and calf.

I signed the forms the checkout nurse handed me without reading them. Was this visit going to be expensive?

Of course. Could I afford it? Nope. I scrawled my name by another red X.

“Ms. Craft, I’m sorry, but your insurance is being rejected.”

I sighed. I assumed it would be—I’d stopped paying my insurance premium months ago. The attempt had been worth a shot, though. I took the worthless plastic card from her and dropped it in my purse. “You can bill me, right?”

She gave me even more forms. Once my signature was officially worn-out, I returned her clipboard. Only one more thing to do.

“Can you direct me to John Matthews’s room?”

The nurse’s smile wavered, and my stomach clenched.

No, he couldn’t have … Death wouldn’t have …

He would. That was his job.

I swallowed around the lump in my throat. “Detective John Matthews. The cop I came in with. The one with the throat wound?”

She nodded, but the frown stayed firmly in place.

“He’s out of surgery, but I’m afraid visiting hours are over.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Who gives a rat’s ass about visiting hours?

Apparently my nurse.

“You’re welcome to visit him tomorrow between nine a.m. and six p.m. Now, I believe the officer said your ride was waiting in the lobby.” She pointed at a pair of double doors.

Right. I flashed her a tight smile before turning away.

I’ll find the ICU on my own.

I trudged toward the lobby on numb legs. John was out of surgery. That was a good sign. He’d be okay now.

I bit the inside of my lip and clenched the stiff hem of the scrubs.

Maybe he’d be okay. Only maybe. Death leaving a soul in a body didn’t mean the person stopped dying—I’d witnessed that firsthand.

A shiver ran down my spine as I pushed open the lobby door. A gleaming pair of elevators waited on one wall. What floor was the ICU on? I could probably slip in without anyone noticing. At the very least I’d get to see John’s wife, Maria. I needed to talk to her. To tell her, to explain … what exactly? I dodged a bullet, and it hit your husband instead? Another shiver crawled over my skin, tracing a clammy trail across the back of my neck.

That was more than just drafty hospital air.

I flipped around, expecting Death’s familiar form.

Boy, do I have questions for—

It wasn’t Death.

A ghost stood behind me, his incorporeal form shimmering with unearthly light. A hospital wasn’t a completely unexpected place to find a displaced ghost, all things considered, but I recognized this ghost’s slumped shoulders, his unkempt hair, and his thick-framed glasses. The ghost from the morgue? What the hell is it doing here?

He frowned, his whole face pinching as he noticed me looking at him, though by the intensity of his stare, it was obvious he’d been watching me. Was he following me?

I didn’t have time to find out. He vanished, his presence slipping farther into the land of the dead. While my psyche always gazed across the chasm separating the dead and the living, I’d have had to drop my shields to follow the ghost, and I was so not exposing my unshielded mind in a public place, especially a hospital with hundreds of souls caught on the line between life and death.

“Ms. Craft?”

I startled at the sound of the gruff male voice. Dismissing the ghost, I turned on my heels, searching for the speaker.

Oh no. My karma surely wasn’t that bad.

Detective Andrews pushed off the wall where he’d been leaning. His stride consumed the distance between us, and he smiled, his full lips softening the severe angles of his face. But the smile didn’t reach his eyes. I didn’t bother returning the false-friendly gesture.

“I take it you’re my ride,” I said, attempting a cocky eyebrow lift. The sutured gash over my eye prevented the movement.

I received a grunt in reply as he strolled past me. Oh yeah, this was going to be a fun trip. I really shouldn’t have hoped against Hanson being my ride. I shouldered my purse higher and fell in step behind Andrews. Since when did homicide detectives handle witness protection—or whatever I was considered? I still wanted to see John and Maria, but I got the distinct impression that if I told Detective Andrews to wait in the lobby while I snuck into ICU after hours, he’d haul me out of the hospital in handcuffs.

Detective Andrews’s path bypassed the sliding glass entrance. Where were we going? He can’t seriously be about to interrogate me. Again. I glanced back at the doors. “Aren’t we leaving?”

He didn’t slow down. “The last person who walked through a gauntlet of reporters with you got shot.”

My shoulders lifted in an involuntary cringe, and I forced them back down.Way to rub it in, jerk. He couldn’t have just said we were sneaking around reporters. Oh, no—he had to bring up John. I wrapped my arms around myself, bunching the oversized scrubs.

Andrews pushed open a door leading to a dimly lit corridor. Cinder-block walls lined the hall, and shadows ate away the corners. I hesitated. Years of using gravesight had eroded my night vision, and navigating unfamiliar corridors shrouded in darkness wasn’t high on my to-do list. Unfortunately, the detective continued without pause, and in a matter of steps the gloom swallowed his wide shoulders from sight. I hurried to catch up.