HEART AND SOUL, JUDY COLELLA [large screen ebook reader txt] 📗

mid-town, and over the years, became a recognized, accepted member of the homeless community. He slept anywhere convenient – except in the factory, which everyone knew was haunted.

On this icy evening, Georgie was looking for something more sheltered than a doorway, alley, or public bench. Considering the options, he headed into the heart of the district where he knew he could find a relatively safe hallway in one of the vacated tenements – no one called them apartments anymore, a label that was far too respectable to describe what they’d become.

Overhead, the patches of sky visible between buildings had gone from greyish-green to a darker version of the same, threatening some kind of precipitation. Rain, snow, sleet – all of it would be more dirt than water by the time it passed through the smog. He stared up, wishing for stars. He didn’t see the silhouette of a man leaning sideways in the recess of the abandoned storefront he was passing, didn’t sense movement as the figure moved out and into step behind him. Didn’t know what hit him when a moment later what light there was disappeared into eternity.

Georgie gained more fame than he could ever have imagined when, the next morning, a street-cleaning crew found his body slumped against that same storefront, looking like he was asleep except for the blood-rimmed hole where his heart had been.

Four

In a dark corner at the opposite end of the loft was an ancient wooden trunk. Its brass hinges had been kept polished, the ashwood well-preserved with constant, careful treatments of rich oils. Inside were a number of objects from every century between the trunk’s first use until the modern era. Among these, was a small chest containing activated charcoal. Another container, this one glass, held arsenic. Still another – a slightly larger metal box that had the unmistakable lines of something high-tech – contained a number of syringes filled with antidotes for every known treatable poison. Its sister was of red enameled metal, and held needles prepared with something more insidious – substances that could artificially induce convincing, if harmless, versions of various medical states: heart attacks, liver failure, tuberculosis, and several other nice ailments, including death.

In addition to these smaller boxes and chests were glass beakers, dishes, test-tubes, all wrapped with great care and tucked in among some well-worn, leather-covered and hand-bound volumes, separated from the side containing the boxes and chests by a thick glass divider.

A strange thing to own, indeed, was this trunk, but it was part of Xavion’s inheritance, and something about which he’d both known and been involved with since early childhood. Its original owner, he was told, had been an alchemist who had befriended the founder of the G’Argyle family, and who had instructed their ancestor in the skills and science of alchemy. In exchange for this instruction, the first of their line had allowed the alchemist and his colleagues to use him for experiments that had resulted in the genetic anomalies which gave Xavion is unusual abilities.

Right now, he needed to open that trunk and use one of the syringes. After spending a peaceful night on the roof, contemplating the cityscape and the mystery of the murdered homeless men, he had concluded that a trip to the hospital was the next best step. The morning news report about yet another victim made this step urgent. Since going to Winter City General and asking a lot of questions about the identities and behavior of its top heart surgeons would be flat-out stupid, he figured he’d go in as a patient. Asking questions under that circumstance was certain to be viewed as normal.

He knelt beside the trunk, opened it with a large skeleton key, and reached inside. The morning ambience glowing through the windows was more than enough for him to see what he was doing. A good thing, too, since he hadn’t installed any lighting at this end.

The red case had a more intensive lock than the trunk – it called for the raised design on his ring to first be inserted in an oval indentation and turned. This caused a top section to flip open, revealing a complicated series of channels and flat, circular sliders. He moved these around in the proper sequence, and the interior locks released. After reclosing the upper lid, he opened the primary one and read the small labels etched on the metal sleeves holding each syringe. He found what he wanted, removed it, and closed the case. Using his ring again, he redid the outer lock, placed the case back into the trunk, shut and locked this, and stood.

I do not like this stuff. Feels much too real. He went to the other side of the loft and opened what at first looked like a switch plate on the wall. Unlike a standard switch plate, however, it swung open like a small door when he pressed the screws in a pattern. Behind it was a narrow, sponge-lined recess where he would put the syringe after using it. Once he was back home, he could take it out, sterilize the needle, refill it, and put it away in the red case. For now, though, he had to move quickly if he was going to make it to the hospital’s ER before passing out.

“God, I hate this part!” Gritting his teeth with anticipation, he took a bottle of rubbing alcohol out of the cabinet, poured some out on a paper towel, and wiped it on the skin over a large vein in his hand. He put the alcohol back, took a deep breath, and making a fist, slid the needle into the vein. “Really, really hate this,” Xavion muttered, pushing the fluid slowly in.

He removed the needle, massaged the skin over the entry point, and opened the cutlery drawer. He jabbed his hand in a few other placed, dragged it lightly over another to make a line of broken skin, then washed the knife and put it away. Raising his hand and turning it this way and that, he was satisfied that it looked like he’d been attacked by an irate cat, effectively camouflaging the injection.

So far he was feeling none of the effects of the shot. He put the syringe into the lined hiding place and shut the switch plate cover, grabbed his jacket and keys, and went out. He needed to be on the ground floor before the first bout of nausea and light-headedness hit. Maneuvering the steep, metal stairs wasn’t a challenge under normal circumstances, but with that happening, it would be.

Taking his bike wasn’t an option. If any of the symptoms were more severe than expected, he’d be unable to steer – dying for real wasn’t part of the plan. So he walked, taking deep, controlled breaths over the increasing sound in his ears of a slowing heart. By the time he reached the entrance to the ER, he could barely stand. His right shoulder and arm felt like they were on fire, his entire chest felt like it was wrapped in the coils of a giant anaconda, breathing was almost impossible, and he figured he’d be violently ill if he didn’t pass out first.

The emergency personnel, a few of whom knew him from visits for various genuine injuries, helped him to a seat in the Triage section while he told them he thought he was having a heart attack, and within minutes, he was on a stretcher, IV tubes in one arm, respirator tubing clipped into his nose. Had he not been feeling so lousy, he might have found the fact that he was way too tall for the bed amusing. But in fact, the only thing missing from the horrible feeling of serious cardiac arrest was the fear. Xavion knew he wasn’t going to die, that he was fine, and would be symptom-free when the chemical dissipated in a few hours.

In the meantime, though, he was admitted, given a semi-private room, and hooked up to a heart monitor, stationary respirator, and a number of other machines designed to alert the doctors and nurses to any changes in his condition and otherwise keep him alive. An EKG was to be administered within the hour, as well as an MRI, and a sonogram (Xavion couldn’t imagine why that was being done – he wasn’t pregnant). He was glad he had great insurance, because he was beginning to feel like a car that had been brought in for a brake job, and then, mysteriously, was found to have a cracked engine block, a messed-up carburetor, and a bad alternator. Gotta love corporate hospitals…

“How are you feeling, Mr., er, Guh-Argyle?” The nurse who had come to see him had used a glottal stop between the “G” and “Argyle,” and it was all Xavion could do not to snort with laughter.

“G’Argyle,” he whispered, saying it correctly for her. “Terrible. Am I going to die?”

“Well, we hope not, sir. That’s what we’re trying to prevent. Looks like you may have had a heart-attack, but I’ll let the doctor explain all that to you, okay?” She offered a smile, and he concluded it was genuine.

“Thank you.”

The young woman moved away from the bed and picked up a marker attached by a long string to the side of a white-board on the wall. “I’m Tariah,” she said, writing her name on the line next to the pre-printed words, “On-Duty Nurse.” Under this, she put the time, followed by several abbreviations. Then she turned back. “I’ve put the remote by your right hand. The red button on top is your call-button if you need me.”

“Thanks.” He wanted to smile back, but was feeling nauseated again.

She checked his IV, patted his hand, and went out.

Whoever was in the other bed groaned. The voice sounded male; an ugly flowered curtain separated the two beds, so it was a guess. Xavion wondered if the person was okay, but felt that if he tried to speak, to ask, he’d throw up. Not good. Instead, he closed his eyes, bored, and waited for things to get better.

Aside from the steady, contrapuntal beeps of his and his room-mate’s heart monitors, the room was quiet. Between the hypnotic, mechanical sound and whatever medicines were flowing into his body, Xavion was soon lulled into a dream-torn sleep.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

“I have to say I’m baffled – yesterday you seemed to be suffering from what should have been a fatal cardiac failure. Now, less than fourteen hours later, you’re in the peak of health.” The cardiac surgeon tapped the clipboard holding Xavion’s chart.

After peering at the name, “Dr. Albion Coel, MD, Facc, Facp” on the doctor’s badge, Xavion started to wonder about its obvious ancient Anglo-Saxon origins, but stopped when he realized the man was staring at him as if expecting an explanation. “How odd. Are you sure?” Frown, Xav. Look a little annoyed. That’s it – good.

“Yes, Mr. G’Argyle, I’m sure. I’ve been doing this for decades. Did you take any kind of drug yesterday, or perhaps ate something unusual to which you might have had an unexpected allergic reaction?”

“I don’t do drugs. Of any kind. However, I did have…no, I’ve eaten that before and never…huh. I don’t know what to tell you.”

“All right.” The man sighed, glanced at