Rosa was murmuring in her sleep. The same thing, over and over again. There is a ruby skull . . .
“It’s not a cure,” Anna said softly. Worse, the message was specifically for her, which meant she was the reason the child had been chosen. The gods had seen her as a way to get to Anna. Why not just send me a damn vision? she thought viciously. But they couldn’t, of course, because her subconscious was blocking her magic. Her fault. Swallowing, she asked, “What will happen to her?”
“If she lives? Foster care, probably.”
Anna knew she couldn’t afford to get any more involved than she already was—not with Rosa, her aunt, or any of the other motionless figures bound to their beds in rooms nearby, and certainly not with the handsome doctor. They were part of the larger fight, not its focus. But she said, “I’ll keep looking for cures.”
He grimaced. “I didn’t mean to put this on you. It’s not your fight.”
Oh, yes it is. “I’ll call you if I find anything.”
“Do that. Or, hell, just come to the main entrance and have someone track me down.” His hazel eyes locked on hers through the shield, going suddenly intent. “How much longer are you going to be here?”
“I don’t know. A few days, maybe longer.”
“Where are you staying again?”
“I don’t . . . I can’t . . . shit.” She didn’t want to lie to him. He was a good man. Faking a look at her wristband, she said, “I’ve got to go. I’ll call you.”
She was through the door before he could say anything else, heading up the corridor at a fast walk as the panel thunked shut.
Moments later, it wonked back open. “Anna, wait!”
I can’t. Pretending not to hear, she ducked through a makeshift decontamination area that led from the inner area to the outer ring of buildings. There, she shucked off her protective clothing and sailed through a half-assed monitoring station, giving a vague wave when the guy called after her in Spanish.
Outside, she dodged around a ragged knot of shell-shocked-looking locals she guessed were the family members of a newly made xombi. “Sorry,” she murmured as she got around them, apologizing for far more than crowding them, though they would never know it.
“Wait, damn it.” A hand grabbed her arm and swung her around, and she found herself with her back against the wall, staring up at David, who looked frustrated and grumpy, and as flustered as she’d yet seen him. He had shucked off his gear, too, and his bare hand on her forearm seemed suddenly very naked, as did his bewilderment. “Anna, seriously. What’s going on here?”
She tried to edge around him, but he didn’t budge. “This isn’t a good time. I really need to go.” Her mind raced, but even though she’d spent an entire career—and an entire marriage—playing human, with all the lies that had entailed, now she couldn’t come up with a damn thing.
“What aren’t you telling me? Are you in some sort of trouble? Damn it, I told you to watch out for the cops.”
“It’s not . . .” She trailed off, because she didn’t know what it was or wasn’t anymore, couldn’t wrap her head around anything with him touching her.
When was the last time she’d been this close to a man who wasn’t one of her teammates? When was the last time someone other than Strike had crowded her overprotectively, trying to make sure she was safe? How sad was it that she couldn’t remember? The answer should’ve involved her ex, and maybe it did, but she couldn’t remember how it had felt to have Dick’s body this near hers, and he’d never been one to get big and protective, at least not over her.
She had told herself she liked that he respected her independence, and maybe back then she had. Now, though, she was badly tempted to lean into David’s warm, solid strength.
Instead, she braced a hand on his chest and levered him back several inches, until their bodies weren’t touching anywhere except at palm and wrist. Then she broke those contacts, too, dropping her hand from his chest and using it to pry his fingers off her wrist. He let go immediately, looking surprised to find that he was holding her at all. Which left them standing there at the edge of the hallway chaos, not touching anymore. But not moving either.
“Talk to me,” he said quietly, urgently.
She shook her head, denying more than just the question. “You’ve been on shift too long, doctor, with too many weird things happening. You’re imagining things.”
“Am I?”
“I’m just a linguist.”
“No, you’re not.” He leaned in, voice dropping. “You’re a top-notch Mayanist who hasn’t published anything in nearly three years, and who’s been on sabbatical for the past year and a half, since not all that long after your grad student protégé got in trouble for defending a thesis on the twenty-twelve doomsday . . . which by my calendar is just over a week away. And that makes this outbreak—and your presence here—look awfully coincidental.”
Anna. Couldn’t. Breathe. “You had me investigated?”
“If you call spending five minutes on Google the same as having you investigated, then yeah, I did.” His features tightened. “Look, I’m not trying to freak you out or come off like Creepy Stalker Guy, but I was interested, okay? Even more so once you sent me the recipe for a wacky-sounding herbal mix that actually worked.” He lifted a hand, but then let it fall again without touching her. “That’s why I called you when Rosa came in and started spouting ancient Mayan . . . because I need to know what’s really going on here. Is this the beginning of the end, an army of darkness, or what?”
Close, she thought wildly. He’s too damn close. Not just to her, personally, but to the truth. The Nightkeepers weren’t sworn to secrecy, granted, and gods knew there were plenty of doomsday theories out there, but Dez would be furious if she blew this contact. Worse, he’d be disappointed.
Play it cool. You can do this. If she didn’t, the doctor would have to be mind-bent, and she didn’t want that. She just didn’t.
They were getting some sidelong looks from the hurry-scurry folk in the narrow strip of space separating the inner and outer tent rings, but nobody seemed to be paying attention to their conversation; they were too busy getting from point A to point B. Anna and David, though, seemed suddenly encased within a strange, human-made shield of privacy.
Think. She had to think. She couldn’t, though—not when her head was starting to pound, harder and harder, reminding her of when—
“I had an aneurysm,” she blurted.
His face blanked. “You what?”
She took his hand—warm and wide-palmed—and lifted it to her scalp so he could feel the ridged scar. “Surgery, a coma, long recovery, the works. I’m fine now, really. But by the time I was back on my feet, my cheating husband had divorced me, the university had put a perfectly good replacement in my position, and I realized that I wasn’t dying to go back anyway. I wanted something more.”
“Like what?”
“I’m working on a book about the ruins and their inscriptions. That’s why I remembered the carving that talked about a plague.” Again, the lies pinched.
“You’re writing a book.” His face had gone unreadable.
She eased out from behind his big body. This time he let her go, which brought a pang. Facing him now, with her back to the flow of traffic, she said, “I’m sorry, Dr. Curtis. I really need to go.”
“Dave.”
“Dave, then.” His name felt strange coming off her tongue, like it was too close to “Dick,” yet nothing at all like it. Not that she should be comparing the two of them, really. They were very different men and the situations were worlds apart. “All I know about the so-called Mayan doomsday is whatever I couldn’t avoid hearing from my grad student, Lucius, and the tripe that’s been in the media. As for the outbreak, I’ve told you everything I know, except for the stuff I’m going to go look up now, based on what Rosa was saying.” She spread her hands and met his eyes. “Seriously. I’m not hiding anything.”