Phoenix Contract: Part Two (Fallen Angel Watchers) Read Online Free Page B
Author: Melissa Thomas
inquire as to why she was so frazzled. She expected his attention to be focused on the guy in the black robes, but he stared straight at her. Aiden turned slightly and glanced at Magnus, only to find him gone.
She was alone, completely alone, except for Matthew and the doctor. “It must have been a dream,” she muttered as she scoured every inch of the small room with her gaze. No one.
“Eh, bad dreams?” He’d surmised that she’d just woken. The doctor scrunched his wizened face and gazed at her through old and kind eyes, hazel orbs with flecks of green and gold behind silver wire-rimmed glasses. He was short, plump and rotund around the abdomen with a light sprinkling of silver hair receding from his forehead.
“Yeah, you could say that,” Aiden said, grimacing at a cramp in her neck as she gave up on her fruitless search and turned back. Her hand automatically moved to work out the kink she’d gotten from sleeping in the uncomfortable chair.
“I’m Doctor Julio Weinman.”
“Aiden McLachlan,” she said. She extended her hand, and they exchanged a short, firm handshake.
“Have you been here all night?” he asked, checking monitors and making notations on the clipboard at the foot of the bed. “You should go home and get some rest,” he said to her affirmation. “Is there anyone else who can relieve you?”
“No, there’s no one else,” she said, her voice soft.
Three days had passed since the incident that had put Father Matthew into the hospital. Aiden had maintained a constant vigil, leaving only briefly to attend to necessities. Katsue and Troy had managed to drop in briefly twice, but they were fully occupied searching for Thrash, and Desdemona cared for no one but herself. It made Aiden sad to think that after over fifty years of service to God, Father Matthew had no one who cared enough to visit.
Unless she counted Magnus. He’d come. Her gaze flickered around the room, sought the phantom Celt again, and then settled uneasily on Matthew. The priest was reclined and unconscious in a metal-railed hospital bed, entangled in a network of tubes, sensors, and cables.
Father Matthew looked frail and fragile beneath the drawn white sheet tucked neatly under his armpits. His normally coffee colored complexion was jaundiced and shallow. His arms lay along his sides, and an IV needle burrowed into the back of his hand. An array of instruments beeped and chirped beside the bed, display lights flashing and bouncing, tracking his vital signs.
Tears stung her eyes, and Aiden looked away. “Is he going to be okay?” she asked.
Doctor Weinman’s sad hazel eyes held kindness and pity. “He has a very serious heart condition, Miss McLachlan. Frankly, it’s a miracle that he’s still alive. However, I’m expecting him to pull through.” This time... The doctor’s unspoken words echoed, troubling and recursive, through her mind, and there seemed to be no getting around the prophecy of doom: Father Matthew would die. It was only a question of when.
“Why don’t you grab a breath of fresh air and give me a moment alone with the patient,” Doctor Weinman suggested, coaching the command into the shape of a suggestion.
Aiden consented and stepped out into the hall.
With stiff movements, she worked out muscles sore from sleeping upright in an uncomfortable chair. At 8 a.m. her eyes were dry and gritty, mouth parched, lips chapped, and throat painfully dry. A groggy haze entombed her mind thanks to the disturbing dreams which permitted her no rest.
Aiden crossed the hall to the restroom. She washed her face and arms in the sink, rinsed out her mouth, and emerged feeling marginally better. Emerging, she headed for the nurse’s station.
NYU Downtown Hospital had been founded by female physician Elizabeth Blackwell in 1853 and serviced the diverse Manhattan business and residential communities of Wall Street, Chinatown, SoHo, TriBeCa, Battery Park City, and the Lower East Side. The long hallway
She was alone, completely alone, except for Matthew and the doctor. “It must have been a dream,” she muttered as she scoured every inch of the small room with her gaze. No one.
“Eh, bad dreams?” He’d surmised that she’d just woken. The doctor scrunched his wizened face and gazed at her through old and kind eyes, hazel orbs with flecks of green and gold behind silver wire-rimmed glasses. He was short, plump and rotund around the abdomen with a light sprinkling of silver hair receding from his forehead.
“Yeah, you could say that,” Aiden said, grimacing at a cramp in her neck as she gave up on her fruitless search and turned back. Her hand automatically moved to work out the kink she’d gotten from sleeping in the uncomfortable chair.
“I’m Doctor Julio Weinman.”
“Aiden McLachlan,” she said. She extended her hand, and they exchanged a short, firm handshake.
“Have you been here all night?” he asked, checking monitors and making notations on the clipboard at the foot of the bed. “You should go home and get some rest,” he said to her affirmation. “Is there anyone else who can relieve you?”
“No, there’s no one else,” she said, her voice soft.
Three days had passed since the incident that had put Father Matthew into the hospital. Aiden had maintained a constant vigil, leaving only briefly to attend to necessities. Katsue and Troy had managed to drop in briefly twice, but they were fully occupied searching for Thrash, and Desdemona cared for no one but herself. It made Aiden sad to think that after over fifty years of service to God, Father Matthew had no one who cared enough to visit.
Unless she counted Magnus. He’d come. Her gaze flickered around the room, sought the phantom Celt again, and then settled uneasily on Matthew. The priest was reclined and unconscious in a metal-railed hospital bed, entangled in a network of tubes, sensors, and cables.
Father Matthew looked frail and fragile beneath the drawn white sheet tucked neatly under his armpits. His normally coffee colored complexion was jaundiced and shallow. His arms lay along his sides, and an IV needle burrowed into the back of his hand. An array of instruments beeped and chirped beside the bed, display lights flashing and bouncing, tracking his vital signs.
Tears stung her eyes, and Aiden looked away. “Is he going to be okay?” she asked.
Doctor Weinman’s sad hazel eyes held kindness and pity. “He has a very serious heart condition, Miss McLachlan. Frankly, it’s a miracle that he’s still alive. However, I’m expecting him to pull through.” This time... The doctor’s unspoken words echoed, troubling and recursive, through her mind, and there seemed to be no getting around the prophecy of doom: Father Matthew would die. It was only a question of when.
“Why don’t you grab a breath of fresh air and give me a moment alone with the patient,” Doctor Weinman suggested, coaching the command into the shape of a suggestion.
Aiden consented and stepped out into the hall.
With stiff movements, she worked out muscles sore from sleeping upright in an uncomfortable chair. At 8 a.m. her eyes were dry and gritty, mouth parched, lips chapped, and throat painfully dry. A groggy haze entombed her mind thanks to the disturbing dreams which permitted her no rest.
Aiden crossed the hall to the restroom. She washed her face and arms in the sink, rinsed out her mouth, and emerged feeling marginally better. Emerging, she headed for the nurse’s station.
NYU Downtown Hospital had been founded by female physician Elizabeth Blackwell in 1853 and serviced the diverse Manhattan business and residential communities of Wall Street, Chinatown, SoHo, TriBeCa, Battery Park City, and the Lower East Side. The long hallway
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