Page 103 of Booked for Murder

The docs had lost a war, but they turned their defeat into a victory for another patient rather than lose them both.

Only when satisfied we wouldn’t be losing any of the three other victims did I fully release my hold on my magic and focus on my foot.

Big mistake.

The instant I concentrated on my own body, I received the bill for neglecting my foot in the form of pain. Passing out sucked, as did the tedious process of clawing back to coherency with a fucking beep for company.

I hated the damned beep, and I wanted to chuck the monitor at a window. Rage beat panic, and I concentrated on how much the fucking beep annoyed me rather than freak out over my status as hospitalized.

Again.

Stupid hospitals.

No, stupid asshole murderer who busted up my busted foot, thus landing me in the hospital. Again. I wondered if I still had a foot, and I found my painless state disconcerting at best.

My mangled foot should have hurt, and while it couldn’t do its job quite right and often tormented me, I liked my foot. I didn’t want to lose it. Did no pain mean I’d been given the good drugs? Did no pain mean I had no foot?

I could work with being under the influence of good drugs, although they often packed side effects capable of turning me into either a nuisance or a comedian. I sometimes even remembered life while drugged.

As I wouldn’t figure out if I was drugged or a candidate for a peg until I checked, I cracked open an eye to check out the general vicinity of my feet.

A honking big cast gobbled up my poor right leg, including the all-important foot-shaped ending.

Good. I liked my foot, and I would miss it if someone took it away from me. Satisfied with the status of heavily drugged but in possession of two feet rather than one, I debated my options, deciding I needed to check my surroundings next. The dim illumination implied I’d opted to return to consciousness in the middle of the night, the good drugs had kept my heart rate from skyrocketing and informing the nurses I was trying to give them gray hairs through a panic attack, and I’d emerged from the rally alive and about as well as I could get.

One more setback with my foot probably wouldn’t kill me.

Well, unless my magic continued to insist on masking severe health problems. That might kill me. I eyed my casted foot, wondering what sort of fresh hell waited for me whenever I got it off. How much damage could a bullet do to a foot? When I thought about it that way, I marveled I had a foot at all.

Satisfied with my foot’s situation, I investigated the rest of my room, startled to discover I had one of the rare single occupancy hospital dungeons. A cup with water and a straw waited within easy reach, and after taking a moment to confirm which arm was cursed with the IV line, I reached with my free hand, snagged it, and took a sip with the straw, offering relief to my poor parched mouth and throat. Bracing for the worst, I swallowed.

I experienced none of the discomfort I associated with recent intubation, something not even painkillers fully removed.

All in all, while I got to enjoy yet another stay in the hospital, I was already ahead of the game.

I could work with that.

Boredom kicked in within a few minutes. Outside of standard hospital charts, including the loathed pain chart, I had a single minor water spot on the ceiling to amuse me and little else. Someone had tilted the monitor with my vitals so I couldn’t read it, and someone had turned the IV stand so I couldn’t check its display, either.

What sort of terrible person left a librarian completely alone in a hospital room without anything to read?

On second thought, had I actually survived? I could readily believe I’d entered some form of hell.

I counted to a thousand, muttered curses, and eyed the bedside button. Bothering the nurses, who had long, hard jobs, wasn’t my style, so I settled with glaring at the damned thing since whining for a book probably wouldn’t get me anywhere. Sulking wouldn’t, either, but I indulged as I lacked anything else to do.

I counted to ten thousand before a nurse came in doing the rounds, and when she spotted me observing her with interest, she offered a smile. “How are you feeling?”

“Too good for the situation.” I pointed at my foot, winced at the tug of the catheter in my arm, and switched hands to gesture to my cast. “That should hurt, but it doesn’t. I’m ready for the regular questions, as I’m betting the doctors are busy with other patients who need them more than I do, as I’m feeling no pain beyond the damned catheter. I don’t suppose I can pay you to take the damned thing out, can I?”

The nurse chuckled, plucked the clipboard hanging off the door, and flipped through the sheets. “I’m afraid the catheter needs to stay for now. How would you rate yourself on the pain chart?”

“Put me at a solid zero, although the catheter might annoy me into a one or two if I can’t remember to keep that damned arm still. Why is it my foot doesn’t hurt but the catheter does? That’s not fair.”

“Before we discuss your foot, can you give me your name?”

“Which one? The birth one or the current one? My first name is Janette. Actually, if we can skip the last name portion of this exercise and skip straight to my address, you’d become my favorite nurse on this entire planet. I’ve come to the conclusion the IV line is feeding me some pretty damned good drugs right now, although I’m highly disappointed that the catheter still stings.”

“Manic reactions to the drug you’re on is quite normal, and it was selected due to your unfortunate tendency to panic following sedation,” the nurse replied. “Where do you live?”