Ward thirty-six is easy to find; there are signs everywhere, and the place is well-lit. I've never been able to work out why artificial lighting has no effect. Maybe it's an exaggeration of human beings getting sunburned outdoors, but being able to sit in a room with a normal lamp in the corner for days, weeks, months on end without coming to any harm.
It's just a matter of strength.
Speaking of lighting, I feel about as strong as a forty-watt bulb when I see Alyssa lying in her hospital bed. And I nearly burn under the gaze of her mother, who's sitting at her bedside, holding her hand and willing her to wake up.
"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing here?" she says a little too loudly, drawing the attention of a nearby nurse, who asks if there's a problem.
"No; I'm just visiting a friend of mine."
"You are not," Mrs. Palmer says, rising to her feet. It's a joke; she's six inches shorter than me at least, wouldn't stand a chance against me if I decided to take her on, but I can't blame her. I really can't. She hates me because I'm undead, and clearly, someone undead is responsible for her daughter being here. And what sort of man wants to argue with an angry mother?
"I only need a few minutes."
"I want you out of here."
I raise my eyebrows, trying to look as if I'm saying try to stop me, but in reality, I'm nervous.
Nervous of upsetting her so much, she demands I be ejected from the premises. I could take on a woman who's five and a half feet tall, no more than nine stones soaking wet, but a couple of burly security guards might prove a problem.
"Has she said anything?"
"I ought to have you arrested."
"Really? And why is that?"
"Look at her. Look at her fucking neck."
"I see. Because she was attacked by a vampire, you assume that vampire was me?"
"Who else would it be?"
"I have my suspicions," I mutter, nearing the bed. Alyssa's dark hair is in stark contrast to the white of the pillow and throws her pale skin into horrific relief. A white bandage collars her neck, and thankfully, no blood shows through; there's a bulge on one side, which I assume is a dressing right next to the skin. "Did she receive stitches?"
"What do you care?"
"I fucking care all right," I throw at her in a stage-whisper. The nurse has left us alone, evidently deciding we're not going to cause any trouble. No other visitors pay us any mind; they're too busy tending to their own loved ones, showing how much they care with magazines, puzzle books, bottles of Lucozade, and paper bags full of bunches of grapes. "Stitches?"
A quick nod. "A few. Why? Feeling guilty?"
"More than you know." I stare down at Alyssa. Christ, she looks so pale. I glance at her mother, wary of turning to stone if I look at her too long. "But not for the reason you think. Like it or not, your daughter and I are friends."
"Your sort should never have been allowed out."
"Out or not, we still exist. Deal with it," I snap and take Alyssa's other hand in both of my own. She's still asleep; maybe it's chemical rather than restful sleep. The drip in her arm will be what's keeping her under. Painkillers do that to you. Sleep, O gentle sleep, nature's soft nurse.
Shakespeare had it right. I wish she was able to speak, but that wouldn't be likely if she were awake, depending on the severity of her wound, which would be why, earlier, she wrote down my name instead of saying it.
"I'll find out who did this," I vow, speaking half to Alyssa, half to her mother.
"I already know who did."
I make a snorting sound of derision, trying not to rise to the bait. "Would I honestly have done this to someone I care about?"
"I don't know with any of you lot, do I?"
The sense of déjà vu ripples my spine like icy fingers trailing up my back. Oh Adam, I want to say, if only he could hear me. Now I know what it feels like to be accused of hurting someone I love.
The difference being, of course, that Adam's guilty. He was guilty then, and he's guilty now.
And it's my job to make him pay.
I don't often use public transport, but the bus is waiting when I leave the hospital---I heard Mrs. Palmer's heavy sigh of relief as I turned my back and exited the ward---so I hop on. My closed-off body language and brow-furrowing scowl should keep people well away. If it doesn't, a flash of my fangs ought to.
There's always a taxi rank waiting outside the hospital too, but as I'm not in a particular hurry, the bus it is. It'll give me time to think. I need to track Adam down first of all, although more than likely, he'll be lying low. Lying so low, it'll take SatNav, Google Earth, and a psychic medium to find him.
Hmm, wonder if that would actually be possible? I stroke my chin, in deep thought while I stare sightlessly out of the bus window, now assaulted by the heavy rain that's just started up.
Technically, Adam's dead, so perhaps a medium would be able to... At least I haven't lost my sense of humour.
So, tracking down Adam it is. My first port of call should be Will. He'll be preoccupied at the moment, but that can't be helped. I'll have to interrupt his little honeymoon love-bubble, and I won't feel an iota of guilt about it.
Talk about history repeating itself. Adam hurts someone, and the group, the social circle, is blown wide open. This could work to my advantage. It's out in the open now that I'm still alive; I don't have that on my conscience. Neither do I have to keep looking over my
