wiped my sleeve over my face, dabbing away any blood that might be there. The cut had stopped bleeding, which was something at least, but my face still felt tight.
I made my way down the tile hallway, and past a few unmanned desks, carpeted waiting areas to my right and left edging the tile like manicured lawns, flat-screen TVs showing parks, waterfalls, and wildlife.
It was quiet tonight. I passed only two people, a man in scrubs and a woman with a backpack who looked like she hadn’t slept for a few weeks.
I turned the corner to the elevators and pushed the button. While I waited for my own personal hell to creak to a stop, I recited my mantra to calm my mind. I took several deep breaths. Pretty soon, the floor swung a little under my feet. Right, hyperventilating did not equal calming breaths.
The bell pinged and the elevator door slid open. I could do this. I could step into that tiny space that didn’t feel big enough for my legs, my chest, my lungs. I could duck down and not have the ceiling hit me, hold my breath, and squeeze in there between the walls, scraping my shoulders on either side.
Sweet hells, I hated this. I bit my bottom lip, and forced—and I mean literally forced—my foot to take a step forward. That got me two steps; then I closed my eyes, held my breath, and took the third.
I turned around, punched the button for floor thirteen, and positioned myself in the exact center of the elevator. I stretched my arms out to either side, so I could hold back the walls when they started closing in.
They started closing in on the seventh floor. Good thing the elevator was fast.
I was sweating by the time the bell dinged again. It felt like an eternity before the doors slid open. And I was there, pressed up against them, my hands out in front of me. As soon as the door started to open, I stuck my hands in it, pushing it wider, and stepped out, escaping.
I hated elevators.
I took a right and strode down the hall, not knowing where I was going, but needing to be a hell of a long way away from that damn elevator. I took the hall as far as it would go, until a set of double doors that were marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY showed up in front of me.
I stood there, breathing hard and sweating. Okay, I needed to pull myself together. It was just a (shudder) elevator. I could handle it. I could kick that elevator’s gears into next year, if I had to.
I took a minute to calm the race between my heart and my head, then walked back the way I came, looking for the signs that would take me to the magical-trauma area.
Past the elevators, the only sound on this floor was my boots on tile, and the squeaky wheel of a custodian pushing a cleaning cart toward the elevators. It was a little weird that I hadn’t run into Davy yet. I guess he made good time. I just hoped he hadn’t passed out on the way up here. Anger aside, he hadn’t been looking all that good.
I spotted a sign, and took another right. This hallway was beige and tea brown, the textures in the paint subtle glyphs, mostly blocking and guarding spells that would activate with a flick of magic. Also a lot of glyphs set up for absorption. It made sense, I guess, to cover all the bases on what kinds of problems could happen here. After all, all the patients in this section either came in with a wound inflicted by magic or still had the magic clinging to them.
Down at the end of this hall, with a decent view of the window and roof of the building below us, was a reception desk. A tiny elderly woman sat behind it. She wore a hat that looked like someone had gutted a Muppet, then used it to knit a cap. Way too many blue feathers, and I’m talking neon and fuzzy, with a big pink flower appliqué over one ear.
“Hello,” she said. “May I help you, dear?”
I couldn’t help it. I smiled. “I’m here to see Beatrice Lufkin? I think she was brought in an hour or so ago?”
“Let me see, now. Beatrice, you say?”
“I say,” I agreed.
She tipped her head and looked down her nose, even through she wasn’t wearing glasses.