Adventures of a Vegan Vamp: A Paranormal Cozy Mystery (3 page)

M
y eyelids popped open
. I did a quick check for eyelid gunk, but my eyes were surprisingly clear of superglue funk. A buzzing energy filled me, not unlike a massive caffeine high. Not traditionally a morning person, that was more than a little surprising. All of that energy was accompanied by a massive thirst that reminded me of the pitcher I’d filled earlier. I turned to my bedside table, planning to drain the pitcher—but it was already empty. Odd. I didn’t remember waking up, and certainly didn’t remember drinking an entire pitcher of water.

I made my way to the kitchen in search of liquids. I even considered braving some milk. But sanity returned when I remembered my earlier puke-fest. Water for now. After drinking three tall glasses, I filled a fourth glass and sat down at my computer. I needed to go to the doctor, preferably right now, while I still had the energy to get dressed and leave the house. Who knew how long that would last? And I needed a new doctor. My guy wasn’t going to cut it. He didn’t have weekend hours—and he just wasn’t going to work.

Three rejections later, I’d exhausted the only options that fit my needs. Finding anyone with weekend hours, who was accepting new patients, and took my insurance, was apparently an impossible task. I tried to take a drink, but found I’d drained yet another glass of water. I stared at the empty glass. That was not normal.

I tried not to get frustrated, but I was on the clock. Who knew when my little energy boost would fade away, and I’d end up passed out in bed again for several hours?

With renewed determination, I scratched insurance off my list of requirements and kept searching. Five minutes later, I’d found a doctor who shared a clinic with several alternative medicine practitioners. Not sure how I felt about that, but she had weekend hours and the website declared, “New patients welcome.” I wouldn’t hold my breath, because two other traditional doctors had said the same—but that didn’t include new patients to be seen this weekend. Also, I wasn’t entirely sure what alternative medicine meant in the context of this practice. The two doctors on staff were both MDs, but it looked like the practice offered some other therapies. Maybe that meant they’d be open-minded about my weird symptoms? Or at least not assume I was starving myself intentionally. The thought was enough for me to dial the number.

“Doctor’s office. How may I help you?” The chirpy voice on the line sounded helpful enough.

“I’m in urgent need of an appointment this weekend. Do you have any available?”

“Are you already a patient with us?”

I wanted to groan in frustration, but managed to filter out my annoyance—I hoped. “No, but I really do need to see someone quickly.”

“Well…” The young woman on the phone at least pretended that she wanted to help. So far, that was much better than the other calls.

I tried for a little pity. “My symptoms have been rather alarming, and I don’t think an ER visit is going to be any help.”

A loud sigh puffed across the line. “Tell me what your symptoms are, and—no promises—maybe we can fit you in on Monday or Tuesday.”

That was the best offer I’d had so far.

“Rapid weight loss, persistent and unquenchable thirst, aching muscles—though that’s gone now—and long periods of sleep. Oh—and I can’t seem to keep food down.” I reviewed my mental symptom checklist. “I think that’s it.”

“All right. I’ll check in with the doctor, but she’s quite busy today. We may not be back in touch until Monday. And if at any time you feel like there’s an emergency, you should seek help from an urgent care facility or the emergency room.”

“Yes, I understand that.” I mentally shrugged as I gave her my contact details. Losing twenty-five pounds in days was likely a really big emergency—but I was mobile and staying hydrated. And I really, really didn’t want to go to the ER. What would the ER do for me besides send me a massive bill? I was walking and talking and had no pain.

I was scrolling through alternative choices online, holding on to the ridiculous hope someone would see me before Monday, when my phone rang.

As I tapped accept, I realized it was the number for the alternative medicine clinic. “Hello?”

“This is Dr. Dobrescu. Is this Mallory Andrews?”

It hadn’t even been five minutes, so the doctor obviously wasn’t
that
busy.

“Yes, that’s me. Do you think you might get me in?”

“When did your symptoms start?” Brisk and businesslike, Dr. Dobrescu wasn’t messing about.

“Maybe Tuesday? As I told your receptionist, I’ve been sleeping quite a bit, so I can’t say exactly.”

“Are you missing any time?”

“I’m not sure what—” I suddenly realized I had no idea how I got home from the bar. Two white wine spritzers wouldn’t have that effect. “Ah, maybe.”

Silence followed.

I checked to see that I hadn’t accidentally ended the call, but it was still live on my end. “Dr. Dobrescu?”

“As soon as you can, come in.”

“I’m sorry?”

“We’ll fit you in. When can we expect you?”

The clinic had gone from “maybe Monday or Tuesday” to “come in now” in the space of minutes, and I hadn’t even mentioned exactly how much weight I’d lost. I didn’t think my symptoms were that specific—at least not according to Google. But given my situation, especially the part where I needed to show up at work on Monday to keep my job, I could hardly be choosy. “I can be there in forty-five minutes.”

“We’ll be ready for you.”

I ended the call and then found myself staring at the phone.
We’ll be ready for you.
The call had been just a little bit off. Or my imagination had run wild. Probably the latter given my less-than-stellar reasoning skills on an empty stomach.

Rooting around in my closet finally produced an old tennis skirt that almost fit and an only slightly oversized T-shirt. I skipped my usual shower, because I was on a tight timeline. I felt like a narcoleptic time bomb.

As I zipped along in my flashy red Audi TT, two things bothered me. I’d never thought my car was flashy before today, and I was less comfortable driving a new sports car than I was with the sad state of my attire. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been in public looking quite so rumpled. But the normal anxiety—that “what would people think” feeling that I normally suffered—simply wasn’t there. It was liberating.

The office wasn’t at all what I expected; it looked like any other doctor’s office. The only thing different from my regular, cranky-old-man doctor’s office was the speed with which the staff ushered me into an exam room. I typically waited fifteen to thirty minutes at a minimum. And it wasn’t as if the practice wasn’t busy. The receptionist hadn’t exaggerated. I’d parked across the street because the office’s lot had been full.

I sat down on the edge of the examining table and watched in surprise as the nurse or assistant—I wasn’t sure which, because she hadn’t bothered to introduce herself—disappeared out the door. She’d gone without taking a history, or commenting on when the doctor would be able to see me, or even a goodbye. Looking back, the only direct interaction I’d had with the staff was to confirm my name.

“Curiouser and curiouser.” I flipped through the contacts in my phone, trying to find someone—anyone—that I could send a quick text with my location and a heads-up to check on me in an hour or so.

I didn’t realize I’d spoken out loud until a woman’s voice startled me with a reply. “Do you frequently feel like Alice?”

My eyes met the intent gaze of a dark-haired woman who carried a clipboard. Her delicate features and even skin tones made her age hard to determine, but I guessed anywhere between thirty and fifty. “Ah. No, actually. Just the last few days.” I squinted to read her nametag: Dr. Dobrescu. “Do you usually see new patients first? Shouldn’t a nurse take my history?”

“There’s some concern that you’re contagious. If you don’t mind, I’d like to eliminate that as a possibility before we proceed.”

She still had that intent look, so I couldn’t help wonder if there was a serious problem lurking. I’d stopped worrying quite so much, because—twenty-five pounds of rapid weight loss aside—I was feeling pretty good. My energy buzz hadn’t faded yet. “How do you do that?”

“It’s an in-house test. I just need to draw a little blood.”

When I shrugged, she set her clipboard down and gloved up—twice.

“Don’t you have a phlebotomist or a nurse or something for this stuff?”

“We’re a small office.” She approached with a metal tray.

Blatantly untrue, but I didn’t think commenting would get me any answers. I watched her wrap a band around my upper arm and then swab a spot with alcohol, but after that I couldn’t do it. Something about blood and needles always freaked me out—especially if it was a needle in
my
arm and
my
blood. I stared at a point on the wall, careful that I couldn’t even catch what she was doing in my peripheral vision.

“You’ll feel a small pinch now.”

I choked on a laugh. Where did doctors learn that stuff? “Ow.”

“Did that hurt?” She sounded genuinely surprised.

Really? She just shoved a needle in my arm, and she was surprised? What kind of doctor was this lady? Glancing in her direction and then quickly away when I caught sight of the tube filling with blood, I replied, “Well, it was more than a pinch.”

“You said your symptoms began Tuesday?”

“I think so. That’s the last time I remember being conscious.”

“You can look now; I’m done.”

“Also, I should mention that I’ve lost a lot of weight. I think maybe twenty-five pounds in the last few days. I can’t be exactly sure because I hadn’t weighed myself in a while, but close to that.”

Still Dr. Dobrescu didn’t meet my eyes. And she didn’t seem surprised.

“Are you guys in touch with the CDC or something?”

Finally, I’d caught her attention. Dobrescu’s head popped up from her clipboard. “What do you mean?”

She looked a little panicky.

“I just mean that you say I’m contagious, and my visit hasn’t exactly been typical so far. You seem to know something about what’s going on. Is there some kind of bug going around that you’re on the lookout for?”

With a firm shake of her head, she said, “Not exactly. This will only take a moment.” Finally, the woman gave me a close, intent look. Like she was peering into my soul. “Stay here.”

Eyes wide, I replied as solemnly as I could, “I will.”

Where the heck did she think I was going?

She wasn’t gone that long, but when she came back she’d brought reinforcements. As in, a really large man who looked like he meant business. Tall, burly, and with a shaved head, I couldn’t help thinking of the Mr. Clean commercials. Except Mr. Clean had a friendly, welcoming, I-want-to-clean-your-home vibe that this guy was lacking.

“Ah, is there some issue?” I scooted around on the end of the exam table, trying to decide whether to hop off—and thereby trigger some reaction from the big guy—or to stay seated and wait for Dobrescu to sic her extra-large nurse on me. “You guys never even took a history or anything. Don’t you want to know about my parents’ health, whether I’m taking any medications, that type of thing?”

I didn’t remember being this chatty when I was nervous…but maybe the chatter would distract them, and I wouldn’t get tackled.

“We just need to make sure that you’re safe before you leave.” Dr. Dobrescu looked down at her clipboard. “How long ago did you first fall ill?”

The big guy blocked the door. And now that I looked past the shaved head, I noticed he wasn’t wearing clogs—unlike the rest of the staff—and he wasn’t wearing nurse scrubs. Hm. Not a nurse.

“Last Tuesday I was fine. I told you that before. So—what?—that was six days ago. You’re a little bit freaking me out right now.” And, of course, a little meant a lot. I glanced at the big guy.

She shared a look with the man then made a note. “Have you felt any violent urges?”

“Noooo.”

Dr. Dobrescu looked up at me like she didn’t buy it.

“You’re making me very uncomfortable, and I’m considering my exit strategies. I’m all about the flight and not the fight.”

Dr. Dobrescu scribbled furiously.

“Ah—you don’t mean violence to myself, do you?”

The doctor’s head bobbed up. “Have you been feeling a desire to self-harm? Or any suicidal thoughts?”

The woman looked much too excited about the prospect. I was starting to feel like a lab experiment.

“Not even a little. Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

She reached into her lab coat and pulled something out. She thrust it at me, and I grabbed it without thinking.

In my right hand, I held a tube filled with dark red…blood? “Ack!”

The vial fell from my fingers. It bounced off the edge of the exam table and then shattered on the floor. Bits of glass scattered, and blood seeped around the shards. “Nuts.” I turned to the doctor with a nasty look. “Why would you do that? Couldn’t you tell how much having my blood drawn freaked me out?”

The doctor had retreated to stand next to Mr. Clean near the door as I’d spoken.

Before I could worry much about the frantic scribbling and hushed whispers, my stomach rebelled. It started with a gentle roiling sensation when the odor of the blood first hit me. But then the smell filled my nose, overpowering the doctor’s perfume, the disinfectant odor in the room; every other scent faded under the stench of blood.

And I puked.

Once my stomach had voided the small amount of liquid it held—I’d chugged bottled water on the drive over—I dry-heaved for a while.

With nose pinched and hand covering my mouth, I pointed at the blood without looking at it. “Hey, could you get rid of it? Please?” I swallowed, trying not to heave again.

I hadn’t realized that during all of my heaving the big guy had left. But thankfully he returned now with a mop bucket that exuded a strong chemical odor and began mopping up the mess. He didn’t look very happy about it.

“Why would you do that?” I asked the doctor with my hand still over my nose and mouth.

I swallowed and tried not to gag again. The odor was muted but it was still there. I leaned to my left, trying to see past Mr. Clean as he wielded the mop.