It turns out, when you wear hospital scrubs every day, you don’t feel very different staying in your pajamas. Unless, of course, you don’t get out of bed. And you don’t bother washing your hair. And you spend all your time crying over stupid Law and Order reruns, with only a party-size bag of Tostitos for company.
Nick Raines had used to me harvest information about the Eastern Empire, information that he’d handed over to the Secret Service. I’d betrayed every imperial I’d ever known, all because I couldn’t keep my hands off the guy who’d been my patient.
There was no way for me to make it right.
I called in sick to work.
That was sort of a joke, of course. There wasn’t anyone to take my call. The doctors all had their own marching orders; they didn’t really need me to keep things going on a day-to-day basis. Imperials arrived. They were treated. They left.
The machine that was Empire General could lumber on for a couple of weeks without my direct input. And a couple of weeks were all it needed. After Midsummer Eve, the accreditation board would shutter the place.
I had to believe most of my staff would land on their feet. They’d go back to providing healthcare the way they had before Empire General opened. They’d work for Hecate’s Court or the Gorgon Council, for the Dryad Council of Roots or the Circle of Elementals.
And if patients needed to wait a little (a lot) longer for medical assistance, most of them had never known any difference. So what if a few misdiagnoses came up because wolf shifters didn’t know how cat shifters treated moon fever? Who cared if dryads came down with the same wasting disease naiads had successfully eradicated eighteen months earlier?
I didn’t care.
I wasn’t ever going to work again.
Okay, that was my pity party speaking. I’d get some job after Empire General shut down. I had to, if I was going to stay current on my student loans. I’d end up in an emergency room at a mundane hospital, putting my Georgetown degree to good use treating human heart attacks and strokes and drug overdoses.
I certainly wasn’t going to be allowed anywhere near an imperial patient. I’d be tossed out of the Washington Coven, too. And I couldn’t blame anyone for my punishment—not when I’d exposed the entire Eastern Empire to the most elite law enforcement team in the United States.
Within a day or two—a couple of weeks at most—Nick would finish presenting his case to the Secret Service. The entire Eastern Empire would be disclosed, and every imperial in the land would be endangered.
Like a patient in hospice, I was merely waiting for everything to end.
After three days of my refusing to answer my phone, of my ignoring knocks on my bedroom door, Becs reached into my room.
“I’m fine,” I said, not bothering to look away from dependable Lennie Briscoe.
“I can see that.” Her tone was not amused.
“I just have the flu.”
“Don’t lie to me, Ash.”
She was right. I owed her that much. I pulled my blankets up to my chin and said, “You were right. I was wrong. Nick Raines was a loser. Are you happy?”
Becs stomped across the room and turned off my TV. Standing in front of the dull black screen, she said, “Stop acting like a heartbroken teen-ager! You’ve got two weeks left to prepare for the hospital’s inspection.”
Like there was any reason to bother with that.
I kept my voice perfectly even. “For the next two weeks, I’m still a witch in the Washington Coven. I’m still your witch. So with the utmost respect for the bond Hecate blessed between us, get the hell out of my room.”
She didn’t bother crossing to the door. She merely reached to another place. I had to get up and turn the TV on by myself. Then I crawled back into bed, pulled my covers up to my neck, and sobbed through the entire second-act trial.