greeting-card sentiments? No, I laid the blame for the dumb decision on Travis.
If he recovered, he would probably brag about his “wild night.”
I sat vigil with Sheyenne’s ghost as she stayed with Travis, and I felt a poignant sense of déjà vu, reminded of when I had remained at her bedside in the hospital, refusing to leave as the toadstool poison killed her. The memory of that awful time was enough to make even a zombie shudder.
Since it was clear the doctors couldn’t help him, I called Mavis Wannovich. She was happy to help, said she’d be pleased to use her witchery for the benefit of my clients and friends. I didn’t point out that Travis Carey was neither client nor friend, and I knew that in return the Wannoviches and their ghostwriter would want to interview me about the Shamble & Die Penny Dreadfuls. I decided to call this my first month’s compensation. One of those “emergency fixes.”
When the two witch sisters arrived at the hospital, the staff balked at letting them enter. Per hospital policy, large sows were not allowed in the patient rooms, even though Mavis insisted that her sister was a thoroughly hygienic pig and probably carried fewer germs than the other visitors or patients in the facility. Alma squealed, ready to engage in antisocial behavior by defecating on the clean hospital floors, which would not have helped their case.
Fortunately, I arrived before the situation got out of hand. “She’s here for a patient’s treatment. I requested her services for the man in 554W.”
“What sort of services?” asked the charge nurse. “She’s a witch!”
Mavis said with a sniff, “I do have some medical experience.”
“You’re a witch doctor?”
“I prefer ‘Practitioner of Alternative Medicine.’ ” She held a pot filled with a smelly concoction. “And this is just what the doctor ordered.”
“No doctor ordered that!” the charge nurse insisted. “Insurance won’t cover it.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve authorized it,” I said.
The nurse placed herself in front of me. “And who are you?” She took a closer look and said, “You’re on the wrong floor. The morgue is on the basement level.”
I pulled out my wallet, flashed my PI license and Detective Society membership card. “Private investigator for the patient.” I took Mavis’s arm before the nurse could respond. “Come on, I’ll show you to Travis’s room.” Walking with great confidence, I led the Wannoviches around the charge nurse and then down the corridor.
The normal treatments hadn’t helped Travis at all, and few if any medical schools offered curricula that included treatment options for succubus exposure. Sooner or later, I was sure that would become common practice for medical centers near the Quarter.
We dodged patients in ill-fitting geometric-print hospital gowns who were shuffling along with walkers or holding IV poles—not a horde of shambling zombies, but post-surgery patients.
Mavis said, “I only had time to create a general all-purpose restorative spell, not one of the gourmet specialty items. I hope that’s all right.”
“He doesn’t need a gourmet spell,” I said. “And he doesn’t need to get well too soon or too easily—he won’t learn his lesson unless he’s hammered over his thick head with it.”
“Oh, one of those types.” Mavis nodded. Alma snuffled and snorted, and her sister translated. “Alma wants to know if he’s cute.”
“Not your type—not for either of you.”
Sheyenne’s ghost lingered beside her brother’s bed while he lay in a coma. He still looked gray, motionless. She perked up to see the Wannovich sisters.
“Neffi said he needs a restorative spell, Spooky,” I told her. “They brought one.”
“Who ya gonna call?” Mavis held out the ceramic pot. Her sister wandered to the other side of the bed, snuffling at the heart and blood-pressure monitor.
With great care, Mavis unscrewed the cap on the clay pot to reveal a bubbling, fuming cup full of noxious goo. “We rub liberal amounts of this restorative unguent inside his nostrils, on top of the tongue, around the gums.” She smiled. “For added efficacy, it’s even recommended we apply it in suppository form.”
I felt queasy. “This isn’t how you plan to restore me every month, is it? As part of our deal?”
“Oh no, your restorative spell will be much easier. He’s in far worse shape than you are.”
“That’s saying a lot, considering that I’m dead.”
Mavis leaned forward slowly and with great relish, letting the fumes roil near Travis’s slack, gray face. Suddenly, his eyes flew open, and he took a huge gulp of air. The cardiac monitor bleeped an alarm; his blood pressure jumped up fifty