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  She laughs a lot over the phone, as does he. When they are not heavy breathing, that is.

  Friday comes with a patient load that would have stunned even general hospitals in Portland, with several walk-in cases appearing out of the blue. It is eight thirty in the evening when Shannon finally finishes.

  She is walking out, getting ready to go home for a light dinner, when Kirk lopes up.

  “Hey, Shannon. Wait up.”

  Shannon turns. Her breath catches. The sight of Kirk always lifts her stomach a little higher, as if she’s floating on air – he is that beautiful. He has changed out of his usual green scrubs and his rich dark hair is free flowing around his shoulders. He wears a leather jacket over a T-shirt which says: ‘DOCTORS WITHOUT BORDERS’. Through Patty, Shannon has learned that he volunteered with that charitable outfit to be stationed in the Sudan, Africa for a year.

  Kirk Fitzpatrick, in Patty’s parlance, seems destined for sainthood.

  “Sorry I didn’t catch up with you all week. How has your first two weeks been?” he says.

  “Busy. But great.” She smiles at her boss.

  He nods. “I’ve heard you’ve been doing some great work. The patients are already talking about you.” He gestures to the door. “You wanna grab a bite to eat?”

  She hesitates, and then says, “Sure.”

  “It’s the only time I have to catch up with you. I hate it when we get so busy that I barely have time to break a new employee in. You drove here?”

  “Yeah.” She can’t help noticing how the fluorescent lights catch the shimmers in his glorious hair.

  “You can hop into my car and I can drop you back here later. Or would you rather go in yours and follow me? How well do you know the area?”

  “Fairly well. It isn’t that big a town, though I hardly have time to explore it.”

  He laughs. “It must be my fault then. Come on. You can tag after my car. It’s the big Tahoe upfront. The place I have in mind isn’t far from here.”

  Yes, she knows it’s his car. Everyone knows it’s his car because it is parked in his reserved spot.

  She drives the Toyota after his Tahoe. Night has fallen already, and the final shoal of sunset is a glimmer over the forested horizon. The ocean is a dark presence to the west. It is chilly out tonight, and she makes sure her jacket is nicely buttoned down her front.

  The place he has in mind is a Chinese restaurant called Wing Lee’s a short distance away. They both park together in the half-empty parking lot, side by side.

  Once inside, Kirk takes a seat by the window so that he can look out into the distant forest and the hills. He does not draw her chair for her as this is not a date.

  The waiter comes over to give them their menus.

  “Do you like Chinese food?” he asks.

  “I honestly haven’t had that much of it.”

  His green eyes flash. “Do you trust me to order?”

  She smiles. “Sure, go ahead.”

  He orders a variety of dishes foreign to her, and then they settle back in their chairs over a pot of Chinese tea, which the waiter pours into two small porcelain cups.

  “So what brings you to Dolphin’s Bay? This isn’t exactly the mecca of holistic medicine,” he says.

  She wonders what version of her story to give him. He seems to intuit this.

  “I know,” he says. “You have the condensed storyline to tell Patty and the rest of the small town gossips. And then you have the real version. It’s OK. You can tell me the real version.”

  She hesitates, looking into his beautiful eyes. She can drown into those eyes, and the moment she feels her cheeks burning, she looks away. God, but he is so beautiful. Different from Lucien, but just as beautiful.

  He mistakes this for reticence.

  “It’s OK,” he says with empathy, “you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. But I thought you could use a friend here who understands what you can do.”

  “No, it’s OK. I want to tell you.” She needs to tell someone about what happened to her to get it off her chest. “I’m from a small town in Arizona called Tupelo.”

  “Go on.”

  He nods, his entire attention focused on her.

  The soft pink walls of the Chinese restaurant melt away around them as she remembers.

  TUPELO

  “You can’t leave,” says the bodyguard she has come to know as Damon.

  “What do you mean I can’t leave?” she demands.

  She is extremely frightened.

  “Senora Conchita needs you.”

  Shannon tries to temper her anxiety by making her voice calm. “And I will be here again tomorrow.”

  Her trembling hands are betraying her. The walls of the mansion around her are rose pink. The pink of a hacienda glowing in sunset.

  “But she needs you tonight to be with her,” Damon insists, blocking her path.

  “I have to go home. My brother is expecting me.”

  “Call him and tell him you have to work tonight.” Damon is joined by two more cartel henchmen behind him. Together, the three of them form a solid wall at the archway leading to the hall, where the main doors are.

  Her heart sinks. How the hell did she get mixed up in cartel business? Oh yes, because they offered her a sum of money she couldn’t refuse. That money would have allowed her and Jared to take a few years off working if it does come to that.

  So far, they have been paying her in installments, but they are holding back the final sum until Conchita – the matriarch of the household – gets better.

  But Shannon knows she won’t get better. The pancreatic cancer which is eating her alive is terminal. And worse, the cancer is sapping Shannon’s strength and ability to heal. She has kept Conchita at bay now for six months, but the cancer is winning. Each time Shannon thinks she has managed to melt a bone lesion away, another one would appear in Conchita’s brain.

  Conchita is in terrible pain. So much pain that morphine and all the cocktails of opioids and other painkillers cannot keep it at bay. Pain like this is not compatible with life.

  But Marco, Conchita’s eldest son, knows that with the passing of his mother, he would officially have to take over the drug empire his mother has built. He is not ready for this and the assassination attempts that would follow. So he is trying to keep her alive for as long as possible.

  Outside this hacienda, no one knows just how sick Conchita Ruiz is.

  Shannon has been feeling poorly for three months now. She has not been sleeping well and she has completely lost her appetite. She has lost ten pounds and her clothes hang upon her body as though it is a rack. Her normally lustrous hair is dry and listless. Her skin is pale and cold.

  It is almost as though the cancer has latched onto her soul and is bleeding her life away. She knows it is psychological – there is no real tumor in her body. But the dark blight upon her soul is very real, as if the shadow of death has passed upon it.

  Shannon turns from Damon in desperation.

  “Call your brother,” he says again. Pleasantly but dangerously. “Tell him you need to stay another night.”

  Shannon draws in a sharp breath.

  Think. Breathe. Keep calm.

  “I’ll call him,” she says in a shaky voice.

  “Good,” Damon says. He is a huge man. Mexican. Towering above six feet four. Dressed to kill. Unlike plenty of henchmen, he does not wear the proverbial scars of his trade. “Would you like to use the house phone?”

  “No. I’ll use my cell.”

  She turns to walk away for some privacy. This, at least, they allow her. So long as she does not leave the hacienda.

  She goes to a bathroom and locks herself in. Upstairs, Conchita is crying out in pain. Her cries can be heard all throughout the house.

  She dials Jared’s cellphone and is gratified when he picks up at first ring.

  “Don’t tell me,” he says.

  “They need me . . . for one more night.”

  “Damn it,
Shannon. You have been saying that for the past seven nights. They’re going to kill you. She’s going to die, and you with her.”

  “I know. But they won’t let me leave.”

  “Not if I can help it.” His tone is grim.

  “No, Jared, don’t . . . these people have guns!”

  But he has already rung off. When she frantically tries to call him back, her call goes to an engaged tone.

  A knock comes on the bathroom door.

  “Shannon?” It is Damon. Pleasant but determined. “Conchita needs you upstairs.”

  * * * *

  Midnight.

  Shannon is drained. She is in a little cot next to Conchita. The old lady is on a hospital bed, connected to infusion pumps filled with opiates. A monitor showing her heart rate has been put on silent. The fulltime nurse they have hired is outside, asleep. Conchita’s breathing is very ragged, and the whole room smells of sickness and decay. Trays of food sit on the table by the window, untouched by both Conchita and herself.

  The barking of dogs comes again outside. Furious barking.

  Shannon sits up. Her ears are pricked.

  More barking, and then comes the sound of whimpers, as if the dogs are being frightened into submission.

  Shannon’s heart is in her throat.

  She gets up and goes to the window. There are men shouting downstairs. It is as though an intruder has entered the grounds and the guards have been thrown in disarray. She can’t see anything but for the shadows of the trees.

  A gunshot goes off. Then two.

  In bed, Conchita groans.

  The nurse enters the bedroom, frightened.

  “Something is happening downstairs,” she says. “We are under attack. Is it a raid?”

  Shannon thinks she knows, but she can’t be certain. The hacienda is a closely guarded and very secret location, but you cannot rule out an attack by a rival Mexican drug gang.

  The nurse locks the door behind her and bolts it. She is trembling.

  “They won’t come in here,” she says, as though to assure herself. “We’ll be safe in here. They won’t harm a sick woman, will they?”

  If that sick woman is Conchita Ruiz, they might, Shannon thinks. Conchita’s ruthlessness with dealing with her rivals is legendary.

  Both she and the nurse huddle together in a corner of the room, listening with growing fear. Gunshots puncture the air, seeming to get closer and closer to the locked bedroom. Rabid growls from a large animal intermingle with the cries of men.

  Please, Shannon prays, let everything be all right.

  There comes a thud on the door, and the entire frame shakes. Finally, the door splinters apart. The nurse shrieks as a very large black animal – the size of an enormous lion – stands at the doorway. It is a panther, and yet not a panther. Something about it is terribly intelligent and ancient.

  Its growl sends reverberations through the walls. Heat radiates from its body, and its breath is rank with blood and human flesh. Shannon runs her frightened eyes over its body and notes the torn flesh where the bullets have pierced.

  Oh please don’t let him be hurt.

  On the bed, Conchita flutters open her eyes.

  “Anubis,” she whispers in a surprisingly clear voice, “have you come to take me?”

  Shannon knows what she must do. She shakes the nurse’s grip from her arms and runs to the panther.

  Hold tight, it seems to say to her.

  With the blood rushing in her ears to mask out all other sounds, she leaps into the panther’s back and grips its thick black fur. Its sleek muscles bunch beneath her and it flies towards the open window. Shannon closes her eyes. Her mind is a void as her entire being is concentrated on just holding on and staying on the creature’s back.

  The panther leaps out of the window and into the cool black night.

  For one preternatural moment, Shannon is flying.

  With a loud thud, they land on the ground three floors down. And then they are off, flying into the night and above the six foot wall with its barbed wire.

  STORIES

  It some ways, it is a catharsis for Shannon to be able to tell someone what happened. But she leaves out the part about the panther. That is not her story to tell but Jared’s.

  Kirk listens avidly until their food arrives.

  “We better get some chow in you,” he says.

  Shannon eyes the spread. Sweet and sour pork is served together with a plate of stir fried vegetables. A bowl of steaming hot rice is laid down for them to help themselves.

  “It smells very good.”

  “It is very good.” Kirk picks up a pair of chopsticks. “Do you know how to use chopsticks?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Try it.”

  She picks them up and fumbles with them. He laughs. It is a rich, hearty laugh, full of baritone and meaning.

  “Here, let me show you how.”

  Across the table, he gently takes her hand and positions the two sticks between her fingers. His hand is warm, and she suppresses the delicious but unbidden thrill running into her knuckles and palm from his contact.

  Get real. He’s your boss. And you’re dating someone just as gorgeous, if not more.

  At least, she thinks she is dating Lucien.

  “There is an art to it,” he explains. “Some people end up holding them all wrong. The basic function of chopsticks is to shove as much food into your mouth as quickly as possible. That’s why rice is eaten off a bowl and the food on the dishes is already cut up for you.”

  He demonstrates. She tries to follow, but ends up dropping her piece of pork on the table.

  They both laugh.

  Kirk signals for the waiter again. “Can you bring her a plate and a fork and spoon, please?”

  “I’ll get it right,” Shannon avows.

  As they eat, Kirk asks more about her powers.

  “When did you know you were different?” he says.

  “When I was twelve. I came into puberty. I had a cat named Marnie. She was bitten by a dog, and I was crying because I thought she was going to die – she was hurt so bad. So I didn’t know what to do, and I picked her up and held her and cried all over her. I felt this warmth in my hands, and suddenly Marnie was wriggling again and trying to get out of my grasp. The wounds on her back and belly were closed up.”

  “Did other people know this about you when you were growing up?”

  “Only my brother, Jared. I . . . I didn’t want to be different, so I told no one.”

  She remembers going out into the woods, picking up small wounded animals to try to heal them.

  “As I got older, I wanted to try my healing on different living things. And so I volunteered at a Hospice. I tried to heal all the old and sick folk there whom no one had any hopes for recovery. That is when I realized my powers had limitations. I can’t heal cancer. It takes too much out of me. I can’t mend strokes. I can’t make the crippled walk again. I am not God.”

  “No, indeed,” Kirk murmurs.

  “But I can definitely take away pain. I can cool down fevers and stop infections from spreading and inflammations from getting worse. I can knit bone – inch by painstaking inch. I can close up wounds and lacerations. I can make joint stiffness go away. I can make everything better, even though I can’t heal what is terminally ill.”

  “You have a great gift, and you have chosen to make good out of it.”

  She finishes her bowl of rice. Kirk was right. The food is incredibly good.

  She says cautiously, “You mentioned earlier that you had personal experience with people with my kind of gifts, but they used them for anything but healing. What did you mean by that?”

  Kirk grows silent. His chopsticks pause in midair.

  He finally says, “I can’t tell you exactly what happened, because I don’t know myself. Except that I lost my brother not too long ago under mysterious circumstances.”

  She is intrigued. That must be the brother she saw in the photographs.
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  “I’m so sorry. What happened?”

  There is a long-drawn silence where she can see that Kirk is debating how much to tell her. Just as she had left out the part about Jared’s metamorphosis earlier because it is not her secret to tell, he is doing the same – weighing how much to leave out.

  He says, “I wasn’t here at the time, so I can’t really piece together what happened. My brother was out in the woods. He was a lover of the great outdoors. He was found dead . . . in a circle drawn with chalk on the ground.”

  The hairs on the back of Shannon’s neck start to prickle. She knows what he is going to infer to next.

  WITCHCRAFT.

  Kirk says, “There were no stab wounds or bullet wounds or anything to suggest he had been physically mauled by animals. So I can only conclude that he was done in by witches.”

  “Why witches?” she asks. “Why not something else?”

  He pauses.

  “I don’t know if you have heard the rumors, because no one likes to talk openly about it.”

  “I have heard about the Walkers, yes.”

  “Good. Then you know.”

  “But the Walkers have ancestors who were accused of witchcraft.” She suddenly has the urge to defend Lucien. “It doesn’t mean they are involved in witchcraft today.”

  Again, Kirk hesitates. Then he shakes his head.

  “I shouldn’t have told you anything. Sorry. You shouldn’t be involved in our family feuds.”

  She is already involved. She thinks.

  “Does your family have a feud with the Walkers over your brother’s death?”

  If they do, it’s a pretty big feud, she thinks. Enormous. Enough to kill over.

  But he doesn’t want to say anything further on the subject.

  “How’s the sweet and sour pork?” he asks instead.

  She senses his mood shift, and she acquiesces.

  “Delicious. Maybe I’ll ask the cook for her recipe.”

  “It’s a closely guarded secret.” He laughs.

  As are many things in Dolphin’s Bay, she thinks.

  The rest of the evening is filled with pleasant chatter and work discussions. The time flies, and before she knows it, she has a call on her cellphone.