Lynn Viehl - If Angels Burn
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2024-12-23
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Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
SUCCESSFUL SURGERY
Alex was staring into Cyprien's eyes. When she was operating on him, she could
have sworn they were blue. But now they had darkened, as if the pupils had
expanded to crowd out the pretty irises. A delayed reaction to the trauma of the
surgery, or maybe something else…
She stopped smelling roses, and started smelling him.
His scent was like his eyes, deep and dark and filled with secrets. Secrets that
tugged at her like unseen clamps left in her chest and pelvis. His eyes seemed to be
bottomless, stretching straight back through his skull into eternity, like those two
strange abscesses she'd seen, endless and enigmatic and swallowing up the light…
His hands were still shaking when he cradled Alex's face between them. "
Pardonnez-moi, chérie." He was lisping a little, but maybe it was because he had
grown two enormous fangs.
Funny. She frowned a little as strands of his white hair tickled her cheek. I don't
remember giving him those.…
IF
ANGELS
BURN
A NOVEL OF THE DARKYN
Lynn Viehl
A SIGNET ECLIPSE BOOK
SIGNET ECLIPSE
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto,
Ontario M4V 3B2, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England
Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen's Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin
Books Ltd.)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124,
Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)
Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park,
New Delhi - 110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), Cnr Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany,
Auckland 1310, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank,
Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England
First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, April 2005
Copyright © Sheila Kelly, 2005
All rights reserved
SIGNET ECLIPSE and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Printed in the United States of America
PUBLISHER'S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the
product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely
coincidental.
For Anne Rice, architect of dreams
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank Judy Hahn, Brian Stark, and Jordan Hahn of Metro DMA
(www.metrodma.com) for their efforts and artistry in creating the official Web site
for the Darkyn series. To see their incredible work and find out more about the
Darkyn novels, please visit www.darkyn.com.
Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee, And love thee after.
—Shakespeare, Othello
Chapter One
"Got another letter from that Cyprien guy," Grace Cho said as she placed the
office mail on Dr. Alexandra Keller's desk. She tapped the top envelope with one
long fingernail. "The M. must stand for Moneybags. He doubled his offer."
"Again?" Alex set aside the weighty nightmare that was Luisa Lopez's medical file.
"You're kidding."
"I never kid about four million bucks, boss." Grace looked over the flat rims of
her reading glasses, mild annoyance in her exotic black eyes. "Why don't you just go
down there and fix this guy's face already?"
It wasn't the money. Under different circumstances, Alex would have performed
plastic surgery on M. Cyprien for one-tenth of his original offer. But anyone willing
to part with that much money for a house call was not someone she wanted as a
patient.
It hurt—four million would make a nice deposit in the pro bono account—but
Alex pushed the letter to the edge of the desk. "Send him another no-thanks and our
referral sheet."
"Been there, faxed that, six times," her office manager reminded her. "Plus I left a
dozen messages on his answering machine. I'm starting to get a complex." She slid
the letter back. "Want to give it a shot? The number's at the bottom there."
Alex mentally reviewed her schedule for the day. She had two car accident
survivors and a toddler with a cleft palate to see before she left to make rounds at
the hospital. One very tricky surgery to perform that afternoon. She also wanted to
check on what progress, if any, Luisa was making. She didn't have time to waste on
M. Cyprien and whatever portion of his anatomy he thought needed tucking or
tightening.
Grace was right; the mysterious M. probably wouldn't take the hint until he got it
from Alex personally. But she was busy, and not in the mood to stroke some
silver-spoon sucker.
"We'll do another fax." Alex pulled out M. Cyprien's latest letter. Like the others,
it had been typed on beautiful buff linen paper with an important-looking crest
embossed in gold at the top. The crest, shaped like a shield, bore two distinct
symbols: a stylized bird's talon and drifting clouds.
"Faxes don't work," Grace said. "I'll show you all the ones I sent."
What does that crest mean? Caution, daydreamers, hawk zone ahead? The
paper had a faint, sweet smell, as if he'd sprayed it with perfume. Maybe he's a
tranny. She'd done plenty of gender corrections, and Hopkins had her at the top of
their rec sheet. If M. Cyprien was dealing with the wrong body and a rich,
homophobic family… "All right, I'll call him."
Grace removed two charts and a crumpled deli bag to unearth Alex's desk phone.
"Before the Reillys get here."
Alex scowled at her. "Bully."
"Hassle dodger." Unmoved, the petite Korean woman picked up the lab reports
Alexandra had finished reviewing before she headed back out to reception.
Alex studied the letter again. Beneath the ominous cloud-and-claw crest was
printed M. Cyprien, La Fontaine, New Orleans, Louisiana, U.S.A. No house
number or street address, no zip code, no e-mail address. The only contact point
listed was a phone number at the very bottom of the page, the one Grace had
repeatedly called.
Four million bucks for one op, Alex thought as she dialed the number. What
could he want done that badly? Burns, maybe? That reminded her of other work
yet to be accomplished, and she parked the receiver between her cheek and shoulder
before she reopened Luisa's file to check some dates. She's gone two months
without an infection, so I should be able to start grafts next week. The main
problem with operating on Luisa had little to do with her physical condition. The
pain management therapist won't see her, not after what happened the last time—
A friendly, lightly accented voice answered the other end of the line. "La Fontaine,
Éliane Selvais."
"This is Dr. Alexandra Keller." Hopefully Éliane understood English; the only
French Alex knew involved other, less socially acceptable uses of the tongue. "Is
Mr. Cyprien available?"
"I'm sorry, docteur. He is not. May I take a message for him?"
"Sure." Maybe he'd even get it through his thick skull this time. "Please tell Mr.
Cyprien that I have received his latest letter—and offer—but my answer is still the
same. I can't fly to New Orleans, and I can't perform his surgery."
"Indeed." Ms. Selvais didn't sound quite so friendly now. "Are you quite certain
there is no exception you can make? Mr. Cyprien is in great need."
What a weird way to put it. "As I've indicated before, I don't travel to treat
patients. I'll be happy to perform a preliminary consultation here in Chicago."
"Mr. Cyprien is unable to leave New Orleans."
"I can sympathize, because I'm unable to leave Chicago." Why couldn't he come
to her? Was he afraid of flying? Under house arrest? On parole? "Please pass along
my regrets, and have a nice—"
"Money is no object, you understand."
"Yeah, I gathered that much." The smell of the rosy perfume from the stationery
was starting to get to her, so Alex balled it up. She shoots. With a practiced flick of
her wrist, she tossed it at the trash can across the room. It rolled along the rim
before dropping inside. And she scores! "Money isn't the issue here."
"What is?" Ms. Selvais didn't wait for an answer. "Doctor, it would only require a
few days of your time, and of course only the finest facilities and equipment will be
provided."
Oh, of course. Guys like Cyprien could well afford the best stuff. Alex thought of
Luisa, who couldn't have paid for the box of Kleenex out in her waiting room, and
her temper began to rattle the bars of its cage.
Her adopted mother's ghost popped into her head. Oh, no, you don't, young
lady. You're a doctor now, Alexandra, and telling her to piss off is rude.
Yeah, but it would be a lot more fun than this. "I'm sorry. It's just not possible.
There are several very qualified plastic surgeons in New Orleans, and I've had my
office manager fax Mr. Cyprien a referral list." She could still smell the perfume; the
flowery scent must have been transferred from the letter to her hands. What did he
do, soak the frigging paper in it? "That's really all I can do, Miss Selvais."
"I will give Mr. Cyprien your message. Merci beaucoup, Dr. Keller." She hung up
with an abrupt click.
Amazing, how the French always make Thank you sound like Fuck you. Alex
went into the adjoining exam room and scrubbed the smell off her hands. Bye-bye,
four mil.
Although Alex had often received outrageous requests from the spoiled and
wealthy, Cyprien's offer bothered her in other ways, and not just because he was
waving around a stupendous amount of money.
Who had referred him to her?
It wasn't as if she were the only reconstructive surgeon in the world. She had
established a solid reputation for clean, ethical work, and her practice was very
healthy, but there were a thousand other doctors just like her out there.
She'd run into people before who had wanted very specific, private work done,
particularly when they were trying to switch identities and/or elude prosecution. If the
price was right, some surgeons wouldn't bat an eyelash. Alex wasn't one of them,
and anyone going through medical channels to find her would have been warned of
that.
Whoever sent M. Cyprien to Alexandra Keller must not have been a colleague or
a former patient.
The intercom on her desk buzzed, reminding Alex that she had better things to do
than to brood over a man who would never be her patient. She returned to her desk
and hit the com button. "Yes, Grace."
"Guess who's here fifteen minutes early?" the office manager asked over the
sound of a man and woman arguing.
Alex sighed. "Send in the happy couple."
Drew Reilly and his wife, Patricia, were still yelling at each other as they came
through the door.
"—look like this, thanks to you."
"Come on, Patti." Drew ran a hand over his shaved scalp, under which Alexandra
had implanted a steel plate to replace part of the skull the crushed roof of his car had
pulverized. His entire head glowed bright red, as if he'd been badly
sunburned—which was new—but she saw no blisters. "I told you a million times,
the freaking accident wasn't my fault."
A new, candy-sweet smell made Alex frown. Cherry perfume?
"If you'd bought the new tires like I told you, cheapskate, it never would have
happened." Patricia gave her young husband a shove. She hadn't been wearing her
seat belt when the car crashed, and Alex was still rebuilding what flying headfirst
through the windshield had done to her face. She glared at Alex from under her
pressure mask. "You tell him, Dr. Keller."
"We didn't have the money," Drew fumed.
"Because you blew it drinking with your dumb-ass friends."
"Hey. Hey." They went on shouting until Alexandra put two fingers in her mouth
and produced an earsplitting whistle. When they shut up, she pointed to the chairs in
front of her desk. "Quit bickering and sit down, or I send you both back to see the
therapist."
"She needs the shrink, Doc, not me," Drew said as he dropped into the chair.
"See what she did to me last night?" He gestured at his reddened skin. "She dumped
five packages of cherry Kool-Aid mix in the showerhead. Real cute, huh?"
Patricia jerked her chair a foot away from Drew's. "That's only because I couldn't
find the rat poison."
Alexandra got the Reillys settled down and checked out, told Patricia to lay off
the Kool-Aid, and arranged for them to see their family therapist. The therapist
thanked her by calling and suggesting that Alex wanted to make him run down the
Reillys with his 4x4.
"You can try, George," she told him over the phone, "but they've got a lot of
metal in their heads now. Watch your tires."
Her next patient was Bryan Hickson, a silent four-year-old boy who moved and
acted like a small, polite robot. The Department of Children and Families had
referred him, and after three years of red tape and multiple foster care placements,
Alex now had permission to repair the disfiguring birth defect that had divided his
upper lip, palate, and nostrils in two. The state had not approved removal of the
other facial scars he'd gotten from beatings as an infant, but she was throwing them
in for free.
Bryan's foster mother, who took in foster children so she wouldn't have to work,
needed assurance only that his Medicaid would cover the cost of the surgery.
"I don't have to stay with him at the hospital, do I?" The heavyset black woman
finished buttoning Bryan's shirt before she set him down in her ancient umbrella
stroller.
"No, but does his biological mom want to talk to me? I can explain the
procedures to her over the phone." Alexandra didn't want to meet Bryan's mother in
person.
"She don't care." The foster mother clipped the frayed lap belt around Bryan's
waist. The boy, who should have been bouncing with energy, huddled to one side
and parked his thumb in the distorted sneer that was his mouth. "She pregnant
again."
Bryan's mother had already had five other kids taken away from her. Like him, all
of his siblings were born addicted to heroin. The last two were born HIV positive.
Alex watched the boy's cleft dilate as he closed his eyes and held his thumb
loosely in his mouth; his damaged palate wouldn't even allow him the comfort of
suckling. "Someone needs to sterilize that woman."
"Only fix she want is the kind she can stick in her arm." The foster mother pushed
Bryan out of the exam room.
After Alex picked up her messages and told Grace to call HRS about Bryan's
mother, she headed over to the hospital.
Construction that never seemed to end had worked traffic into a nasty knot, so
she used the delay to return some calls.
"Dr. Charles Haggerty, please. This is Dr. Keller." While she was on hold, she
inched her Jeep to the far left side of her lane to see beyond the furniture delivery
truck in front of her. Road construction and a fender bender blocked off three of the
four eastbound lanes. A good mile of bumper-to-bumper traffic stretched out ahead.
"Al? Where are you?"
"On the road between my office and surgery." The sun came out from behind
some clouds, so she slipped on her shades. "What's up?"
"I've got a six-year-old boy, Down's kid, and I'd like you to look at him for a
partial glossectomy. Hang on." To someone else he said, "Get me a throat swab and
a CBC on four, thanks, Amanda." There was noise: a child's angry screech and a
woman's startled yelp. "Oh, shit. My patient just bit my nurse. Can we do this over
dinner, Al?"
Alex laughed. "Charlie, the last time you invited me out to eat, we ended up
having peanut butter crackers in bed." After an extended period of shoptalk and
some slow, comfortable sex, both of which she had enjoyed.
"I wanted to order takeout," he reminded her. "You were the one who had to
argue about laparoscopic nerve reconstruction until after the Thai place closed.
Amanda, can you—yes, thanks—here, Melinda." The sound of a sobbing child grew
louder. "Would you like to say hello to Dr. Keller? No? Don't try to bite the phone,
baby—she's not as pretty as you." The child's crying slowed, and there was some
sniffling and a thick, muttered question. "Oh, no. Dr. Keller can't wear Blue's Clues
sneakers. Her feet are too big. She only fits into Donald Duckwear."
Alexandra liked Dr. Charles Haggerty for a lot of reasons, and not just because he
was a great specialty pediatrician who adored his mostly handicapped patients. He
laughed at her more radical ideas, but he always listened, and he never gave her any
sexist or competitive crap. Doctors were usually in terrible shape and/or lousy
lovers, but Charlie had a nice body and, when they weren't too tired, actually put
some effort into using it to please hers. He hadn't pushed marriage or moving in with
her, either, two more big gold stars in her boyfriend book.
But Charlie had always been more of a friend than a lover, and Alex knew she
should turn him loose.
"I need a wife who'll take care of me," Charlie had told her more than once, "and
so do you."
"Here's your mom, Melly." A shuffle and a grunt as Charlie passed his burden to
other arms. "Be right with you, Justina." He released a breath. "What do you say,
Al? Be my Calgon dream girl and take me away from all this."
Alex was honestly tempted to accept his invitation to dinner, whether it be Thai
takeout or crackers in bed. She had Luisa today, though, and from experience she
knew all she'd feel like doing tonight would be listening to Chopin while she nursed a
headache and a glass of dry white wine. "Maybe next week, okay?"
"Seeing Lopez again?" His voice softened. "You've got to stop beating yourself
up over her, sweetheart. With some of them, you just do what you can and pray."
"I know." If Alex had still believed in God, she might even agree with him. A
break opened in the lane next to hers and she darted into it. "Gotta go, Charlie. Send
over your glossectomy tomorrow morning. I'll work him in."
"Appreciate it. Get some sleep, and I'll stockpile some more saltines and Skippy
for next time."
Southeast Chicago Hospital was a fortress of modern medicine, which over the
years had collected a small village of specialty clinics, outpatient services, and rehab
centers around its two-thousand-bed central building. Alex parked in the private,
underground physicians' lot and signed in with reception before she took the staff
elevator up to the fourteenth floor.
She had been to Luisa's room a hundred times, and still she had to force herself
to punch the number fourteen button. The higher the elevator rose, the more she felt
the invisible weight on her shoulders increase.
Luisa Lopez had been born in the projects on Chicago's west side, and had lived
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