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Tristan survived long enough to make it to the hospital in Perdition.
Mort was familiar with hospitals. When he had worked, he was there all the time. They took Tristan right away, which even Mort knew was a bad sign. If he had been working, he would have been able to melt through the people and be by Tristan’s side. As it was, his presence in the mortal realm had begun to make him solid and subject to the laws of mortals.
“Sit down, sir.”
“I want to see my friend.”
“Sit down, sir,” the nurse repeated. She was tired, overworked, and underpaid. There were dark circles under her eyes, and a pinched look around her mouth. She did not have time for anybody’s bullshit. Not even Death himself could have intimidated her. She was far too used to it.
Tom reached up, grabbed Mort’s arm, and pulled him down into one of the plastic chairs arranged in dour rows throughout the waiting room.
All around them, he heard the sick and felt the dying. It felt oddly comforting, like being back home.
“What the fuck happened to him?” Tom asked the question.
“He created some sort of a…” Mort was momentarily lost for words. “A trap, with the innards of fireworks and pieces of metal, cut up beer cans.”
“Fucking idiot,” Tom cursed. “He was always a fucking moron.”
“Don’t talk about him that way.”
“Sorry,” Tom said, his skin going to goosebumps with the sudden chill that came with Mort’s disapproval. “But it’s true.”
Not so sorry, then.
Tristan had not earned the respect of his peers because Tristan always did whatever he wanted to do, regardless of whether or not it made sense or would work. He had absolutely no regard for his own life, and probably had not in years. To others, that instability read as being untrustworthy and dangerous.
“He is not stupid. He is incredibly inventive and intelligent. What he is not, is careful.”
“I remember Tristan making wings out of plastic bags in like, fifth grade. He said an angel told him how to make them, and he was going to fly. He jumped off a water tower and broke both his legs. My mom said he’d probably be taken away because social services knew he didn’t have a daddy and his momma was a wh…” Tom paused and corrected himself, trying to make his speech more respectful. “His momma was a hooker.”
Swing and a miss.
“And did they come?”
“Sure, they came one day. Tristan ran away, wouldn’t let them take him. Everybody thought he fucking died out in the desert. Was gone for forty days. Then bam, one day, he walks into class like nothing happened. It was wild.”
“Forty days?”
“Forty days and forty nights,” Tom nodded. “Biblical shit.”
It was, indeed, biblical shit.
Mort learned many things from Tom that night, uppermost among them, that Tristan had always been a handful, and he had always been a survivor. So why in hell had he been trying to string a noose when Mort met him?
Someone in the chair behind him coughed, rustled a paper, and leaned in far too close for politeness or comfort.
“Fancy meeting you here, cousin.”
Anubis.
Nobody else in the waiting room saw the jackal’s face, but Mort was treated to the sleek, dark snout and even darker, mocking eyes.
“What brings you to the hospital, Mort? Can’t be the poor souls slipping from their physical bodies, can it. You don’t do that kind of work anymore. Is it the one you tried to save? How is that going?”
Anubis was smug.
“Great,” Mort said. “Wonderful.”
He was glad for their conversation to be interrupted by the arrival of a harried-looking doctor.
“Are you two with Tristan Stevens?”
“Yeah,” Tom said. “That’s us.”
Mort did not dare speak, lest his true nature be revealed. Doctors and medical staff had an uncanny way of picking him out sometimes. Not because they saw demons like Tristan did, but because their work took them repeatedly to the very lines between life and death.
“Your friend is going to survive,” the doctor said. “He’s lost a lot of blood, but we are replacing that. If either one of you would like to make a donation to help replenish our stores, that would be appreciated.”
Tom was already rolling a nonexistent sleeve up. “Sure, boss. Where do I go?”
“To the clinic during open hours. It’s three in the morning.”
“Oh. Right.”
“Appreciate your willingness, though. You can take him home once the transfusions are done,” the doctor said. “And don’t let him do whatever it was he did again. Technically, I should be reporting him to the police, but frankly, I don’t need the paperwork.”
Hell had demons. Humans had paperwork.
9
“You’re mad at me.”
Mort hadn’t spoken since they’d gotten back home. Tristan was propped up on the couch, covered in bandages and wounds that would be scars soon enough. There was one particularly deep one on his left cheek that had taken thirty stitches to close. That wasn’t ever going to go away.
