“And he just happened to know you have a Drude on staff?” I bit out skeptically. “This doesn’t sound like a trap at all.”
“I suggested the possession.” Dirk shuffled the papers in the file. “I might have implied that you were a 'Dead Ringer.'”
A dead ringer was a slang term for a Mimic Sidhe. A Fae with the ability to emulate the appearance of others. Dirk was Fae so he couldn’t outright lie, but the Fair Folk were tricky bastards. They could imply, hint, and misdirect with the best of them.
“You want me to wear Frankie and get to the bottom of whatever conspiracy is plaguing the Hunters?” I summed up. “That’s peachy. Except for the fact that people will notice that her body is missing.”
“The plug’s being pulled tomorrow. Her body won't be in the hospital anymore either way.” Dirk said. “Do you want to wear her fresh, or do you want to wait for her to die?”
I rolled my head to my shoulders as I considered his question. “She’ll last longer if her body is alive.”
Dirk clapped his hands together. “Great.” He said without enthusiasm. “Now, get out of my office—and next time you come into my bar, take a minute to shower if you're going to wear a homeless man.”
I stuck my tongue between my teeth and blew a raspberry. “He’s a meth addict, actually.” I snapped before I spun on my heel and flounced away.
“Why does she think that makes it better?” Dirk muttered as the door slammed shut.
Dirk owned an apartment in the East Village that he let me stay in. Situated in a terracotta monstrosity of a building, on the third floor, and guarded by a dubious keypad and a housing association more concerned with themselves than looking too closely at the residents.
It was perfect for me.
Creative types were a breeding ground for dark subconscious thoughts and harrowing dreams. My building was home to an experimental sculptor and an artisanal cheesemaker. The nightmares of those two could keep me fed for weeks.
My meat-suits hands started to shake when I stepped out of the taxi, reminding me that I wore an addict, and his source of vitality (drugs) was wearing off quickly. I was too tired to drift home, and getting into my building was hard without hands.
I kept my bathroom window cracked, just a hair, but it was a short jump from the fire escape, and I didn’t want to risk Dirk's apartment getting burgled.
I trudged through the foyer with heavy feet, pushing Mr. Meth to the back of his mind as I struggled to keep a hold of the gurgling stomach pains and nausea that his memories told me were typical of withdrawal.
I spotted one of my neighbors from across the hall as I got off the elevator. Apartment 36. Hunched over as if his own height made him uncomfortable. Blonde hair flopped in his eyes and his cupid bow lips were always pursed. He never made eye contact. Never spoke in anything above a mumble.
I'd caught a glimpse of his face once. He was the most good-looking man I'd ever seen, and I'd met the Devil.
Well... When I say 'met,' I mean cowered from a distance as Lucifer swanned into the City of Dis.
Mr 36 left his apartment at odd hours (like me) and sometimes accepted my deliveries from Amazon.
“Hello!” I waved enthusiastically when Mr 36 stood a foot in front of me. He looked up briefly before focusing on his shoes.
His brow furrowed as his gaze zeroed back in on mine, doing a double-take.
I shrugged and kept walking as I reached my apartment. I felt my hot neighbor’s eyes on the back of my bald skull as I felt along the seam of the door for my taped key.
Keeping hold of a key was virtually impossible when you didn’t have a body.
I let myself into my apartment, just as my borrowed body's bowels began to revolt and sing a whale song of screaming pain and impending release.
Ugh.
The withdrawal was not fun.
Chapter 2
The next morning, Dirk's car arrived, idling outside my apartment like a flashy black shadow. I'd had the night from Hell (pun intended) and was in no mood to take the subway, so it was fortunate that my boss had decided not to take any chances. He probably thought I’d skip town instead of face the Demon Hunters.
My borrowed body was clammy and cramping with withdrawal symptoms as I rode to Brooklyn Methodist on 6th Street. Dirk's driver double-parked and dropped me off right at the doors.
I found the Emergency Dept. on the end of a red painted line through the hospital.
Demonic healing had stowed the worst of the withdrawal pains, but I still felt out of sorts. I couldn’t wait to dump the body I wore and slip into something smaller and more comfortable.
I didn’t bother to find out the name of my borrowed puppet, as I poured out of his skin and into the vents overhead. His substantial body dropped like a marionette with its strings cut, and hurried shouts of medical staff soon followed.
I was smoke as I drifted through the hospital, unbothered by air filters and the weaving tunnel of pipes that led me across the building.
Francesca Gardiner was in a private room on the sixth floor, with neuroscience. She was in a coma and hooked up to breathing machines. As I listened to the hiss of the equipment, I tried to decide when the best time to jump into her body would be.
Dirk had informed me that they were going to pull the plug, but only Davenport, the leader of the NYC Hunters, was aware of that fact. Even her family didn’t know.
As if my thoughts had summoned the dark, brooding beast, Warren Davenport slipped into the room on silent feet. A doctor by his side.
The commander's steps made no noise as he strode to the side of the bed and looked down at the still brunette, strung up to the machines keeping her alive.
“Corporal Gardiner.” He said, his head bowed in respect, and his deep-set brow creased. “Rest assured, we will find out who or what did this do you—it might not seem like much, but it’s the best I can do.”
Warren Davenport pushed his fingers through his dark hair and let out a sigh. He closed his eyes as the doctor turned off the machines with care.
Fuck. Shit. I needed to jump before the body died. I didn’t want to do it with a Demon Hunter in the room, let alone the Big Boss.
Frankie's heartbeat ticked down like a bomb. I waited, hanging on the edge of the vent, ready to plunge into the room like a tsunami of smoke.
“Let's step outside, Mr. Davenport.” The doctor suggested.
The door had barely clicked shut before I sunk into Frankie Gardiner’s skin and wrapped myself around her mind.
Step one: completed.
Now, I just had to lay in the bed until someone could take me to the morgue. Then I’d make my escape.
I hadn’t thought about an outfit change when I strode to the bus stop opposite the hospital and waited for Warren Davenport to pick me up.
I was meant to be a Dead Ringer. A copy. Not the real thing.
I had gotten a few looks from passers-by, and I had assumed that it was because the back of the hospital gown opened to expose my butt. I didn’t even think about the toe tag that I hadn't bothered to remove.
Warren Davenport barely stopped. His car trailed by slowly; he honked once for me to get inside. Rolling my eyes, I skipped over the curb and sank into the passenger seat.
“Not funny.” He growled. “Do all Fae have such a sick sense of humor?”
I glanced down at the horrible pattern of my paper-like gown. I supposed that it was kind of dark to dress up as someone that had just died. Davenport didn’t know that I wore Frankie's body. He only thought I looked like her.