So, apparently, I could see dead people now. It was Aicken all over again, only with beer instead of bullets. The ghost didn’t appear to me again, and I was actually thankful for that, because it would have made my experience with Countess Earnshaw even worse than it already was.
So, another thing to ask Andalon about, if and when she ever reappeared.
As for the Countess—who was every bit as horrible as her first impression had made her out to be—to be fair, she was definitely in need of treatment. My wyrmsight did not lie—or, if it did, I’d yet to see any evidence of it.
A strong, multicolored glistening filled her chest like dodder. If I stared at her, I could see it creep forward, out into her limbs and head, like a second nervous system growing in, as if the fungus was trying to replace nature’s handiwork with its own unholy creations. Unlike my previous patient, she wasn’t glowing with fungal aura, and I was looking forward to surreptitiously trying out different ways of manipulating the aura. I figured that, since I was able to communicate with Andalon just by thinking about it, perhaps I could manipulate the aura through similar means—by thinking about it.
Unfortunately, the Countess was not the least bit coöperative. She was there only because her niece had begged her to get a check-up, and, no matter what I said, she remained adamant that she had, and I quote, “Nothing but a minor disruption of breath.” When I asked if I could examine her chest (with my stethoscope, obviously), she snorted and called me a “prurient roué.” I did not know what a “roué” was, though I was certain it was nothing good (especially if it could be prurient), though that stopped mattering once she (begrudgingly) consented to remove her shirt and the dark filaments branching beneath her clavicle were in plain sight.
Her screams made my ears ring. She slipped out of Room E4 and demanded transference to the ICU “on the double.”
Nobles.
After the Countess, I saw a family of five—the Draunborns. The father was sick, and the rest had come for emotional support. He was thin and frail, but with a gentle disposition that blended well with his starchy complexion and mousey hair. His name was Jim. Jim Draunborn. He was a realtor. And he was coughing up a storm.
“I’m going to listen to your chest, Jim,” I said. I brandished my stethoscope as I stepped behind him. “Try and stay still.”
Unlike Moira, Jim was perfectly coöperative. And he didn’t bleed out on me, so I could avoid panic and focus for once. He even talked about the lovely silver watch on his wrist.
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He collected them.
Thickening my wyrmsight enough to bring the fungal aura into view, I saw that it was beginning to crown atop Mr. Draunborn’s head, like what I’d seen in Mr. Isafobe’s corpse or in the patients in the darkpox beds. Like I’d planned, I reached out with my thoughts, imagining fingers swiping at the multicolored, coruscating light-weave. For my own benefit, I gripped his back, pressing my fingers into his shoulder blades.
The instant my imagined grip made contact with the weave, an electric shock bolted through my body like a reflex arc set ablaze. The sensation was startling enough that my stethoscope fell out of my hands, the ear buds scraping against my head as the object’s weight pulled it down. As for Mr. Draunborn, his whole body spasmed. He yelped, his voice momentarily slurring.
“What happened? What was that?” he asked. His breaths were heavy and labored
“What did you feel?” I asked him.
He coughed. “Pain in my head. Dizziness. Tingling sensations all over the place. Everything tasted… blue.”
“I…” I swallowed hard, “I think this might be something worth looking into.”
“What is it… what are you doing, exactly?”
I didn’t want to lie to him, so I didn’t. “I’m… I’m not really sure,” I said. “But it might be something important, though,” I nodded cautiously, “it could be dangerous. I’m not going to do it without your approval.”
Something gave me a bad feeling about this. Electric shocks (and sensations thereof) were as near close to a universal “do not do this” sign as you could get.
But Jim looked me in the eye. “Please, do anything you can.” He coughed horridly, flinching from the pain. His breath was raspy and raw. His voice broke. “My parents died last night. I…” he winced as he swallowed, “I don’t want to abandon my family.”
I couldn’t say no to that.
So, I drew in breath. “I promise,” I said. “I’ll do everything I can.”
Jim smiled, trying not to cry. “You seem like a nice man, Dr. Howle; the kind of man I’d like my son to be when he grows up.” He sighed. “If he grows up. This… plague…”
I nodded, trying not to cry, myself. “We’ll do everything we can.” I cleared my throat. “Alright, I’m doing it again.”
I steeled myself. This time, I knew what to expect, so I was able to keep my focus, even after the electric shock buzzed through me. Once again, I grabbed Mr. Draunborn, this time gripping his shoulders. I looked up to the security camera in the corner of the room.
I might as well make it look like I was doing acupressure, or something.
As to what happened next, I don’t know how to describe it other than to say that the fungus’ aura was the heaviest thought I’d ever had to lift. My legs trembled beneath me. My breaths turned deep and loud. I had to put every ounce of my strength into trying to push the multicolored light off Mr. Draunborn’s head.
He spasmed like before, but much more intensely, and then he shrieked and started to scream.
Stopping what I was doing, I darted in front of him. Blood was pouring out of his eyes and nose and mouth. His head bobbed like a ragdoll’s skull.
My every instinct told me to run like heck—so I did, slamming the door shut behind me as I turned around.
I shouldn’t have done that, because the window in the door gave me a front-row seat to something no one should ever have to see.
Mr. Draunborn’s head exploded.
His head. Exploded.
E4 was sprayed in red, black, and death.
Like I said, things were not going according to plan.