Busted Flush

Nick sent the fourth will-o’-wisp, the largest yet, dangerous to the border of deadly. With a crackle and a pop, the child spasmed, then collapsed to the linoleum, a lock of raven hair clutched in a death grip, a handful of wasps beside him like scattered peridots. Jonathan yelped.

There was a brief silence, then a woman exclaimed, “He’s dead!”

The boy lay stretched out atop Lilith’s cloak as if it were a rumpled coverlet—or a funeral pall. “It was only a shocker,” said Nick. “He should be awake in a while.”

“No,” said the woman, “he’s really dead.”

Nick felt a horrible lurch in the pit of his stomach. He turned back to the boy. The child’s ashen pallor was not the shade of unconsciousness, but of death. He caught his breath, praying the woman was wrong . . . then saw a twitch from the boy’s eyelids, a jerk of facial muscles, and he breathed a great sigh of relief.

The child opened his eyes and began to sit up.

“He died three hours ago!”

A knife appeared in the dead boy’s chest, and then a second one, blood blossoming around them to soak his hospital pajamas. A third blade hissed through the air, catching him in the shoulder as he stood up. “That’s what I was trying to tell you!” snarled Lilith. “The little bugger’s dead!”

The child removed a blade with one small hand. “So are you, you vampire whore!”

Nick sent a fifth will-o’-wisp toward the boy. The ward stank with burnt hair and ozone as the corpse fell to the ground again, twitching spasmodically.

The elevator doors opened then and more people came in. The child’s corpse began to twitch back to animation, and everyone took a step back . . . everyone except the people who’d just come from the elevator. Nick realized with dull horror that the boy wasn’t the only zombie present. Lilith had stepped back into the gray-faced parents from the waiting room. They caught her with merciless hands, gazing at her with glassy eyes. The dead boy pointed with the bloody dagger. “Make the bitch bleed! Make the fucking whore—”

The dead boy gagged as a thousand wasps filled his pie hole, more covering his face, blinding him with sheer numbers if not their stings. Nick turned to the other zombies as they began to beat Lilith, tearing her hair and clubbing her with their clenched fists. He hurled a giant orb of foxfire at the crowd on the left, blasting them back against the elevators. Jonathan interposed himself, pulling Lilith away, presenting himself as a target instead. The zombies accepted, tearing him wasp from wasp until all they held was a torn sport jacket. Jewel-tone wasps swarmed their faces, and Nick rushed forward to where Lilith lay like a bloody rag doll, pulling her away from the zombies as patients and staff clogged the stairwell.

Nick, Ellen thought quickly. Blast out the back window.

“What, you can fly now?” Nick hissed, dragging Lilith away from the walking dead.

No, but Aliyah can. Nick glanced to the back of the ward: no patients, but an oxygen tank. A single shocker and the blast took out the window, blowing the hat from Nick’s head.

Ellen retrieved it, pulling off the jacket and pulling on the shirt and earrings. Aliyah, whirlwind, now! The thought was imperative and the dead girl didn’t even question. Get Lilith! Get Bugsy! Get Nick’s hat! The sandstorm blew, shards of glass mixed with its stinging particles, but the clothing came up, the wasps as well. The most difficult task was lifting Lilith, but she was slender and the wind was strong.

They blew out the window and into the air.

The New Orleans nightscape glittered, the Mississippi a glistening ribbon. Aliyah roared aloft, Jonathan’s wasps trailing behind like a chain of stars. The brightest beacon was the lights of the Quarter, and in that, shining brilliantly, a fountain of fire. Aliyah headed for that.

Midcourse, Lilith simply vanished. Teleported, Ellen realized.

Aliyah re-formed on the patio next to the fire fountain, half-dressed, which was more than could be said for Jonathan. Diners gawked, but without missing a beat, Jonathan said to the nearest waiter, “Table for two, two of your souvenir T-shirts, and what’s your special?”

The waiter didn’t miss a beat, either. “That would be the Hurricane, sir.”

“How appropriate,” Jonathan remarked as Aliyah looked to a sign lettered in green and white: PAT O’BRIEN’S—HOME OF THE HURRICANE. Next to that was the outline of a jauntily tilted cocktail glass in the shape of a hurricane lantern. “Two of those while you’re at it.”

“Very good,” said the waiter, gesturing to a free table. Apparently in a city used to drunken hordes of Mardi Gras revelers, partially clothed aces didn’t raise many eyebrows.

They donned what clothes they had, Jonathan adding the T-shirt when it came along with their menus and two brilliant red cocktails in the distinctive glassware.