On Pins and Needles: Sierra Fox, Book 3 (42 page)

I sucked in a quick breath and followed, trying to keep up with the flickering image of a ghost, instead of running from it. She turned the corner and continued down the next corridor.

“Wait!” I had a feeling that whatever was calling this ghost girl would take her the same way it had taken Mrs. Wicker.

When I caught up with her and extended my hand, hers was solid enough to grab. I moved with her, holding tight and determined to follow her until she stopped in front of an open doorway.

“I need to go in there,” she said, pointing at a lonely bed in the middle of the room.

“No, don’t!” But it was too late, her hand slipped from mine. She flashed me a small smile and then faded, but not before I saw what looked like a shadowy hand drag her in. Not this again.

A tap on my shoulder made me jump and the coldness of the ghost’s presence faded, leaving me coughing and wheezing as I tried to catch my breath. My body struggled more than usual to adapt to the real world.

“Relax, Sierra.” A cool hand rubbed my back gently.

I hunched over for several seconds, hands on my knees, waiting for the artificial air of the hospital to settle around me. It took awhile, but the comforting hand never stopped its soothing motions and helped keep me grounded. I knew who it was before I looked up.

“Thanks, Oren.” I straightened and his hand fell away. As I turned and met his eyes, I wondered how many times I was going to find myself thanking him today.

“What happened?”

“I just saw…” My voice trailed off when I noticed where I was standing. “This is Mara’s room?”

“Yes, how did you know?” His eyes were concerned, but also questioning. “I got rid of the security guard for a while.”

“How?”

“He developed an unquenchable hunger for a greasy hamburger, which he’ll find several blocks from here.” A small grin twisted his thin lips. “He should be gone for a bit, but you better do whatever it is you need to in order to get some fast answers.”

“Shit, I’m sorry. I could’ve ruined this—”

“No, I was on my way to tell you I’d gotten rid of the guard when I found you just standing there in the middle of the corridor, rigid. I didn’t want to interfere and instead watched you head right for this room, reaching for something.” His brow furrowed. “What happened, Sierra?”

I shivered at the recollection of what I’d seen. “I saw a ghost. She wanted my help, so I tried to encourage her to follow the light. But she wouldn’t. She said something else was calling her and led me here.” I figured the edited version of events was better suited for now. The last thing I wanted to do was mention the similarities between Mrs. Wicker and the sick dead girl. It seemed more important to focus on the fact that I was pretty sure the spook hadn’t been called into this room, but dragged.

“A ghost led you to Mara’s room?”

I nodded, slowly. My eyes focused on Mara, lying in the only occupied bed inside the hospital room. There were actually four beds but when I’d followed the spook, this was the only one I’d seen.

“Something strange is definitely going on in this room. I can’t feel the dead like you, but I can certainly feel the unnatural nature of whatever is haunting her.” Oren actually looked uneasy. I’d never seen him this way. He was usually cool, calm and collected—in control of everything, and full of cryptic answers.

I took another step and my skin crawled. I struggled to suck in a shallow breath and exhaled, trying to focus on my surroundings. The room was painted off-white, the same color as the curtains separating each bed. The dividing curtains were all pulled open, displaying the neatly made beds with no charts hanging from the ends. Mara seemed to be the only patient and her bed was situated near the sole window. Her chart looked thick, the pages curling because they’d been handled so much.

The blinds over the window were slightly open and I could see day was already blending into night, which in summer meant it had to be past eight. So much for my day off! I hadn’t had a chance to do anything remotely relaxing.

We were high up, so the only things I could see in the distance were the winking lights of the city below and the clear indigo sky. No moon to look at yet.

When there was nowhere else for my gaze to stray, because I was standing at the end of Mara’s bed, I glanced down at her motionless body. I had so many questions but doubted she could answer any.

She was connected to a bunch of machines I couldn’t even begin to name. One made a continuous beeping sound, the rise and fall of a vertical line marking her steady heartbeat. There were other things connected to her arms, including an IV unit. A thick tube was pressed into her mouth and her eyes were closed, both arms at her sides as if she were already dead.

“It’s not pretty, is it?”

For the second time while inside this hospital, I jumped. I turned enough to find Mara standing beside me. Her long, straight, black hair hung down to her waist, shiny and silky, not limp and dirty like it really looked. She was also wearing low-ride jeans and a clingy T-shirt that stopped high enough to expose her trim abdomen.

“You’re not dead, though,” I said.

She shook her head and the curtain of dark hair swayed around her. “Not yet, anyway.”

“Then why can I see you?” To be honest, I’d never gone near a person in a coma before, so I didn’t know how close someone in this condition was to death. This was a first for me. The implications of a spook catcher being able to communicate with coma patients made my body chill. Which also begged the question—could we all do it? Or was this a result of my other magical side?

Mara shrugged. “I guess I’m in limbo or something. You know, not quite dead yet barely living. Those machines are keeping me alive.”

“It sounds cruel.”

“Trust me, it is. I’ve begged for release so many times. I’m not even sure how long I’ve been stuck in limbo. I’d rather move on than linger in this state. If only the doctors would listen to me.”

I didn’t want to ponder what she was saying. The fact her family hadn’t given the okay to shut down the machines after all these weeks made me wonder if they even knew about her condition. The Council did its best to minimize contact.

Some parents and guardians didn’t like to deal with their spooky offspring and gladly sent their girls off to the Council, while others were proud and kept in contact. I didn’t know if Mara still kept in touch with hers.

I sighed, turning to face her. I stared into her lovely, light brown eyes. She looked sad, but seemed to be trying to hide it behind her usual cheerful façade. I’d known her for a while. She started with the Council about six months before I left. I trained her in a few things and we’d stayed in touch—an email here, a phone call there, but nothing overly social. Still, I liked her. She was powerful and a very genuine person. Mara was the epitome of
what you see is what you get
. I hated to see her in such a helpless position.

“What happened to you?” I asked.

“I’m not sure, but it’s still happening…”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t remember everything, just snippets. Things that don’t make any sense to me, but might mean something to you…”

Before I could respond, she wrapped both of her cold hands around mine and a jolt of pain rushed into my head. I couldn’t look away, glaring into her eyes as I tumbled into a scene that made my skin crawl.

Justine Jones faces her ultimate enemy: herself.

Head Rush

© 2011 Carolyn Crane

The Disillusionists Trilogy, Book 3

In an attempt to put her unhappy past behind her, Justine Jones throws herself into nursing school and planning her wedding to Otto Sanchez, the man of her dreams. But something is off. Random details aren’t adding up…and is it her imagination, or are her friends and fiancé keeping secrets from her? And what’s with the strange sense of unease, and her odd new headaches?
 

Justine tries to stay upbeat as Midcity cowers under martial law, sleepwalking cannibals, and a mysterious rash of paranormal copycat violence, but her search for answers leads her into the most dangerous mind game yet.
 

With the help of unlikely allies, including her paranoid dad and best frenemy Simon, Justine fights her ultimate foe…and unravels the most startling mystery of all.

Warning: This book contains high-speed rollerblade chases, a mysterious green dashboard ornament, a father of the bride in full hazmat gear and a delicious kebab. 

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Head Rush:

I turn to Simon, who’s been unusually quiet, and discover, much to my horror, that he’s aggressively eyeing this new impound lot attendent, who is twice his size. Eyeing him enough so that, simply put, there’s a thing between them now.

“Look,” I say pleasantly, trying to counteract Simon’s insolence. “You have a little gray Jetta out there that’s mine. When this lot was called, there was no record of it. But it’s out there, and I just want to get it back. I have my ID here, and I know it will match the registration, which I know is in the glove compartment, and I also have the keys that go to it.”

“What is this, Cinderella and her glass slipper?” Steve says from behind the window, not taking his hard-assed gaze off Simon. “If there’s an error, we’ll turn it up. We don’t need civilians in restricted areas.”

“We saw my car.”

Simon crosses his arms, gaze boring even harder now into the guy with the moustache. “I think our friends don’t understand who they’re dealing with, Justine.”

I scowl at Simon. He thinks I’m going to play the mayor’s fiancée card?

Simon doesn’t see my scowl; he’s turned his aggressive gaze to Steve. I’m starting to worry; there’s so much heat among the three of them, it’s like a fight’s already started.

“They don’t get who they are dealing with on any level,” Simon amends mysteriously.

“Who would that be?” Steve disappears from the window. The metal door opens and out he stomps. “Who would that be? That we’re dealing with here?” Steve goes to stand by the man with the moustache. Convenient. Simon can antagonize them both at the same time.

Finally, Simon turns to me. “Don’t you think somebody needs attitude adjustment?”

My mouth falls open. Simon wants me to zing my fear into them.

“Don’t like our attitude?” the one with the moustache asks Simon.

“Oh my God,” I say as I come to understand Simon’s plan: he’s going to put himself in danger and force me to zing them. “Ignore my friend!” I command.

Steve and the man with the moustache ignore me instead.

“He’s trying to antagonize you,” I plead. “Don’t fall for it. Look—” I hold up the police report. “This car is out there. How do I get it out? What are the steps? I need your help.”

Steve smirks at Simon. “It’ll be a while.”

“I have an idea, Steve,” Simon says. “How about if I rip off this guy’s moustache and shove it up your ass? Will that expedite things?”

“Stop,” I say to Simon, hand on his chest. I turn to Steve and the other man. “Don’t take the bait.”

The man with the moustache steps forward, orange vest flashing. “Nothing’s stopping you.”

Simon takes a step forward. “The image of you, slobbering like a baby and begging me to lay off is stopping me, actually.” He’s now officially in the man’s face. The men have the fight on; it’s in their eyes. Simon will make them hurt him until I cave. “You’ll be sorry,” I say to Simon under my breath.

“What are you waiting for? You know you want it,” Simon says silkily. Steve and the moustachioed guy think Simon’s talking to them, but he’s talking to me.

Yes. I want it. I want to zing more than anything.

Simon touches two fingers to the man’s orange vest and shoves. “That’s for you, baby.”

“Don’t.” I pull him away.

Too late. The moustachioed man pushes me out of the way and shoves Simon—hard. Simon stumbles and falls backward onto the ground, laughing.

“Stop!” I yell.

“That’s all you got, you pussy?” Simon grabs up a handful of slushy gravel and whips it into the moustachioed man’s face. The man’s vest seems tighter suddenly, like he’s puffed up with rage; I gasp as he lunges for Simon. He yanks Simon up by the collar and punches him square in the nose. The force of the punch sends Simon stumbling backward, back down.

“Don’t!” I grab the man’s arm, but he pulls out of my grip. I could make him back off if I wanted to. One zing from me and he’d run off in fright.

Simon coughs and smiles at the same time, not bothering to wipe away the blood streaming from his nostrils. He’ll let the man hurt him, and he knows I know it. He takes great joy in following through on bluffs. He grins, and then, out of nowhere, he spits at the man.

“Simon!” I say.

The spit doesn’t hit; it doesn’t have to. The moustachioed man’s eyes turn blank. Blind rage. The eyes don’t see, or more, they don’t take in new information.

Steve pipes up now: “Can’t let that shit stand, Hal.”

I grab the moustachioed man’s arm—Hal’s arm—again. His nostrils flare, like he’s readying to attack. I’m touching him now, and automatically—greedily, excitedly—I locate the surface of his energy dimension. All my fear and worry—I could be rid of it. I grip him harder, reminding myself I’ve sworn off zinging.