Legacy of the Demon (Kara Gillian 8)
ary, and clearly there was some demahnk-level mind manipulation going on. I had no clue what Zack was up to, but I had faith that propagating a plague wasn’t part of it. He simply knew it wasn’t contagious in the conventional sense and saw no point in making everyone go through the godawful hassle and headache and expense of quarantine procedures when there was no need for it.
“Give me a moment to assess,” I said, easing closer to the gel-egg thing. The gel was completely opaque, giving no indication that a human lay curled inside. Though the physical surface appeared smooth, arcane patterns covered it in a thick layer of glimmering hexagonal cells reminiscent of a honeycomb. The resonance was similar to Cory’s, but far more organized. In the center, a tumor the size of a basketball pulsed, with delicate tendrils of potency branching from it like blood vessels. Only their arcane network revealed the shape of the man it covered.
I met Dr. Patel’s eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s causing this other than it’s definitely arcane. However, I can give you more than you’ll get in a physical assessment. The tumor in the middle isn’t draining him. It’s feeding him.”
She nodded with enthusiasm. “Considering the outcome, that makes perfect sense. I knew the transformation energy had to come from somewhere. How does—”
Dr. Patel to unit twelve, emergency, a voice announced from her pocket. Dr. Patel. Unit twelve.
She made a noise of frustration. “A.C. Gillian, I’ll be right back. Agent Gallagher will continue your briefing while I’m gone.” She burned a you’d-better-do-it-right glare in his direction then hustled from the room.
Damn it. What the hell had Patel meant by “outcome” and “transformation energy”?
Gallagher moved in close. “Can you do anything for Hawkins?”
“Nothing directly,” I said with a sigh. “What’s his prognosis? I mean if they manage not to kill him.”
“We’ve observed two very different outcomes,” he said, eyes dark and grim. “I’ll show you.”
I followed him out of the room but paused when he started down the corridor. “I need to make a pit stop first,” I said. “Won’t be a minute.” I didn’t wait for a response before ducking into the ladies’ room and on into a stall. As quickly as my little thumbs could move, I texted Pellini: I shoved my phone into my pocket then flushed the toilet, washed my hands, and returned to the corridor.
Gallagher looked up from his own phone as I returned. “Got word of three new cases. Quebec, San Diego, and Boston. All are refugees from the Beaulac area, but haven’t confirmed if they were here the day of the blast.”
“I’ll wager they were.”
“I’m not taking that bet.” He shook his head. “At least the media hasn’t gotten hold of it yet.”
“I’m surprised it hasn’t already gone viral.” I grimaced. “You said you were going to show me the outcomes. Is that the transformation Dr. Patel mentioned?”
He nodded and led the way down the corridor again. “Don’t be shocked by what you see.”
“I deal with demons, remember?” I wished I felt as confident as I sounded.
Gallagher hmmfed then ushered me into a room marked Phase 4. A woman rested peacefully on the bed with monitors attached and an IV in her arm.
I peered at her. “Yeah? She looks normal.”
Gallagher lifted her hand and uncurled her fingers. Her nails curved abruptly beyond the tips of her fingers and terminated in wicked sharp points. And it didn’t look like malformed human nails, either. More like unnaturally natural claws. “That’s not so bad. It’s weird as hell, but—”
He drew the sheet back from the woman’s legs.
I let out a low whistle. Fur—orange, white, and black—covered her hips and thighs, and a fluffy tail lay alongside her leg. Yep, showing me was better than telling me that Cory was going to turn into a cat. A calico cat. Seriously? “That’s . . . definitely bizarre. How is this happening?”
“We don’t know. We’ve had,” he glanced at the clock, “fourteen hours, and the only two patients we have in Phase Four arrived that way. We don’t know how they transition or emerge from the jelly cocoon thing to become this.” He waved a hand at the transformed woman. “Both fours seem stable, though. Robust, in fact.”
“Is the other one a cat, too?”
A scream and metallic crash sounded down the corridor.
“Shit. That’s the other Phase Four,” Gallagher said. Together, we hurried toward the source of the fracas. “He was in the jail when it blew,” he continued. “Nasty piece of work.”
We swung through the open door to see Dr. Patel and two nurses wrestling with a naked man who was handcuffed and shackled to the bedrails. Metal clanged against metal as the man jerked at the cuffs. He screamed again, a deep, inhuman sound, reminiscent of the bellow of a reyza.
A bolt of surprise went through me at the sight of the man’s face. I knew the guy—Earl Chris, a repeat offender who’d been in and out of jail over a dozen times for everything from drug possession to battery. Hell, I’d arrested him twice myself. But my shock went deeper than simple recognition. He’d always been a tough-looking guy, but now he had a mouth full of sharp teeth, and his skin from chest to toes was mottled like a mass of dark bruises. Yet at the same time it looked as tough as a rhino hide. And his hands—
“His left hand’s out of the bag!” the nurse nearest me shouted.
The right hand remained bagged and cuffed, but stinger-tipped tentacles squirmed on the left where fingers should have been.