Chapter Twenty-Four
Travis remained on life support, holding on but not improving. He looked like a human washrag made out of skin and bone that had been wrung vigorously dry then given an extra twist for good measure. I couldn’t imagine how sweet, emerald-eyed Ruth could have done such a thing. Her despair and guilt were obviously genuine. A succubus was a succubus—what else was she supposed to do, write greeting-card sentiments? No, I laid the blame for the dumb decision on Travis.
If he recovered, he would probably brag about his “wild night.”
I sat vigil with Sheyenne’s ghost as she stayed with Travis, and I felt a poignant sense of déjà vu, reminded of when I had remained at her bedside in the hospital, refusing to leave as the toadstool poison killed her. The memory of that awful time was enough to make even a zombie shudder.
Since it was clear the doctors couldn’t help him, I called Mavis Wannovich. She was happy to help, said she’d be pleased to use her witchery for the benefit of my clients and friends. I didn’t point out that Travis Carey was neither client nor friend, and I knew that in return the Wannovichs and their ghost writer would want to interview me about the “Shamble & Die” Penny Dreadfuls. I decided to call this my first month’s compensation. One of those “emergency fixes.”
When the two witch sisters arrived at the hospital, the staff balked at letting them enter. Per hospital policy, large sows were not allowed in the patient rooms, even though Mavis insisted that her sister was a thoroughly hygienic pig and probably carried fewer germs than the other visitors or patients in the facility. Alma squealed, ready to engage in antisocial behavior by defecating on the clean hospital floors, which would not have helped their case.
Fortunately, I arrived before the situation got out of hand. “She’s here for a patient’s treatment. I requested her services for the man in 554W.”
“What sort of services?” asked the charge nurse. “She’s a witch!”
Mavis said with a sniff, “I do have some medical experience.”
“You’re a witch doctor?”
“I prefer ‘Practitioner of Alternative Medicine.’” She held a pot filled with a smelly concoction. “And this is just what the doctor ordered.”
“No doctor ordered that!” the charge nurse insisted. “Insurance won’t cover it.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve authorized it,” I said.
The nurse placed herself in front of me. “And who are you?” She took a closer look and said, “You’re on the wrong floor. The morgue is on the basement level.”
I pulled out my wallet, flashed my P.I. license and Detective Society membership card. “Private investigator for the patient.” I took Mavis’s arm before the nurse could respond. “Come on, I’ll show you to Travis’s room.” Walking with great confidence, I led the Wannovichs around the charge nurse and then down the corridor.
The normal treatments hadn’t helped Travis at all, and few if any medical schools offered curricula that included treatment options for succubus exposure. Sooner or later, I was sure that would become common practice for medical centers near the Quarter.
We dodged patients in ill-fitting geometric-print hospital gowns who were shuffling along with walkers or holding IV poles—not a horde of shambling zombies, but post-surgery patients.
Mavis said, “I only had time to create a general all-purpose restorative spell, not one of the gourmet specialty items. I hope that’s all right.”
“He doesn’t need a gourmet spell,” I said. “And he doesn’t need to get well too soon or too easily—he won’t learn his lesson unless he’s hammered over his thick head with it.”
“Oh, one of those types.” Mavis nodded. Alma snuffled and snorted, and her sister translated. “Alma wants to know if he’s cute.”
“Not your type—not for either of you.”
Sheyenne’s ghost lingered beside her brother’s bed while he lay in a coma. He still looked gray, motionless. She perked up to see the Wannovich sisters.
“Neffi said he needs a restorative spell, Spooky,” I told her. “They brought one.”
“Who ya gonna call?” Mavis held out the ceramic pot. Her sister wandered to the other side of the bed, snuffling at the heart and blood-pressure monitor.
With great care, Mavis unscrewed the cap on the clay pot to reveal a bubbling, fuming cup full of noxious goo. “We rub liberal amounts of this restorative unguent inside his nostrils, on top of the tongue, around the gums.” She smiled. “For added efficacy, it’s even recommended we apply it in suppository form.”
I felt queasy. “This isn’t how you plan to restore me every month, is it? As part of our deal?”
“Oh no, your restorative spell will be much easier. He’s in far worse shape than you are.”
“That’s saying a lot, considering that I’m dead.”
Mavis leaned forward slowly and with great relish, letting the fumes roil near Travis’s slack, gray face. Suddenly, his eyes flew open, and he took a huge gulp of air. The cardiac monitor bleeped an alarm; his blood pressure jumped up fifty points, and he squirmed in the bed, trying to shrink from the foul-smelling pot. He sat up wide-eyed, his lips trembling. “Get that away from me! Get her away!”
Mavis took a step away from the bed, satisfied. “That does it.”
“You mean you’re not even going to apply the stuff?” I admit I was disappointed, though I didn’t really want to be around for the suppository part of the procedure.
“As I said, it’s a powerful restorative spell. The mere threat of having this in one’s orifices is usually enough to give the patient-victim all the energy he needs.”
“Thank you so much, Mavis.” Then I added, very advisedly, “I owe you one.”
“Oh, we’ll be calling soon.” She tipped her pointed hat to me and led her sister back out into the hospital corridors. As they left, I heard her suggest to Alma that they should stop at the hospital cafeteria’s all-you-can-eat salad bar before they went home.
Sheyenne’s delight to see her brother recovering lasted only a few seconds before her reaction set in; she’d been stewing most of the night. “Travis, Mom and Dad are dead. I’m dead! Isn’t that good enough for you? Why would you want to kill yourself like that?”
He tried to make a joke. “Can you think of a better way than death through sex? Coming and going at the same time.”
She slapped him, and her hand went right through his face. “I thought you were desperate! You said you had no money. How could you pay for something like that?”
Travis turned his head on the pillow, tried to withdraw into the bed. The silence hung for a few moments, until I spoke up. “Sheyenne, you already know where he got the money.”
Sometimes when you love somebody, you don’t want to see what’s staring you in the face. It’s that voluntary blindness when it comes to family members. She gaped at her brother. “You didn’t! You pawned our jewelry to spend the money in a brothel?”
“Not all of it,” he said in a very small voice.
“I don’t believe this, Travis! Even after I’m dead you’re still jerking me around!”
“Look, I’m sorry.” He weakly raised his hands. “She was so pretty and … I got carried away. I didn’t think it would turn out—”
“Just stop at ‘I didn’t think!’” Her spectral form glowed brighter as her fury became incandescent. “I—I need to leave before I say something I will regret for the rest of my … forever. I don’t know why I bother.”
In disgust, without even a glance at me, Sheyenne departed straight through the solid wall. I was required to leave by more conventional means, but not before I turned my most baleful glare on Travis. And zombies have a knack for baleful glares.
“I’m tired,” Travis muttered; it sounded like a whimper. “Leave me alone, I need to rest.”
“Normally I don’t get involved in family matters,” I said in my most threatening tone, “but if you mess with Sheyenne, I promise I’m going to get very involved.”
At my undead pace it was difficult to storm off, but I did the best I could.