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In Chains	By : bewaretheshort1 Category: Anita Blake > General Views: 1236 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, stories, or derivatives thereof of the Anita Blake: Vampire Hunter series. I do not make ANY money from this fic.

Chapter List
- 1-One
- 2-Two
- 1
- 2
I woke up with a splitting headache and wondering why the hell my dark room was so bright, and where the overpowering smell of disinfectant was coming from. I whimpered to myself as I curled into a ball and tried to remember drinking so damn much tequila the night before. Of all the alcohols I’ve ever had, tequila is the only one to make me feel so horrible the next morning.
Of course, I got my answer when I heard the unmistakable sound of a voice speaking over a PA system.
I sat up - slowly - and stared with an open mouth at a hospital room.
Well, fuck. I drank myself to an alcohol poisoning. I resolved to get myself checked in to a local AA group, and reached for the call nurse remote. As I waited, I took in my surroundings.
The whole room was still too bright, but that was probably due to my hangover. The fact that the sounds of the hospital felt as though someone had turned it up half again as loud was something else I was pretty familiar with as far as hangovers went. However, the annoyingly unfamiliar and overpowering smells in my room were new. Some I recognized, like disinfectant, new sheets, and fresh paint. Some were at total odds with the room itself, like perfume. But most sat just beyond my comprehension, teasing me with how familiar-yet-unfamiliar they were.
One smell in particular was getting closer. It was like a ball of perfume, make-up, hair spray, annoyingly new clothes, all wrapped up in the unmistakable smell of a human body. Surrounding it all was an unfamiliar, yet strangely tangy, smell.
Then the squeak squeak squeak of rubber soles on linoleum started up, getting increasingly louder. It pounded against my head and was murder to my oversensitive ears. I only barely resisted the urge to pull the pillow over my head and snarl at the world at large.
Just when the noise and smell were getting to be too much, the nurse walked in and stopped just inside the door. The noise stopped, but the smell lingered. As I watched her, I saw her eyes go a little wide and the strange, tangy smell got more powerful. It was only for an instant, but I saw fear on her before she covered it up with a bright, cheery smile.
“You’re awake,” she said. “How are you feeling?”
“Hungover,” I grumbled. I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not a morning person. My speech is slurred and, more often than not, sounds angry before my first cup of coffee. I made a show of yawning behind my hand, more to stretch my jaw than anything and get my tongue ready for exercise. “What happened?”
“Why don’t I get Dr. Phillips?” she said. The tangy smell was starting to make me a little hungry, and I was about to ask for some breakfast when she turned on her heel and all but ran out of the room, the loud squeak squeak squeak following her down the hall.
“Weird,” I murmured, letting myself flop back down on the bed.
I wasn’t hooked up to any machines or IV’s. In fact, there wasn’t anything in the room to monitor my vitals. I took this as a good sign. My life wasn’t in any kind of danger. In fact, the doctor probably wanted to talk to me to get me involve in some sort of rehab program. After something like this, I was more than willing to submit to it. I didn’t even realize I had a problem, up until now.
As with the nurse, I smelled and heard the doctor before he arrived. Though the tangy, tasty smell was fainter with him, it was still present. His smile was tighter and smaller than the nurse’s, but no less forced.
He didn’t sit, but remained standing. I sat up and self-consciously pulled the sheets around me.
“I’m Dr. Phillips,” he said. “How are we feeling?”
“A little hungover,” I replied slowly. “Headache, light sensitive. Everything sounds louder.”
“Anything else?”
I hesitated. Telling someone you can smell their hair gel isn’t exactly kosher in polite conversation. “Things smell... stronger. A little.”
He nodded, as though expecting that. “Do you remember your name?”
“Of course I do,” I replied, feeling a little taken aback.
“Can you repeat it for me?”
“Nicole McIntire.”
“How about your birthday, do you remember that?”
“September twenty-third.” I was beginning to feel there was more to these questions than just a follow-up.
“Do you know where you are?”
“St. Louis, Missouri?” I replied, making it a question. He nodded again. “What’s going on? Did I hit my head?”
“Well,” he began, “you did come in with a head injury.”
“Must not’ve been too bad,” I quipped, but my humor died when I saw his face. That was a Bad News Face. “Uhh, what’s today’s date?”
“Do you remember why you’re here?” he countered, a deliberate dodge to my question. I could feel myself starting to panic a little.
“Not really,” I said slowly. “But that’s normal, right? I was drunk. On tequila.”
“What’s the last thing you remember, Miss McIntire?”
I stopped and frowned to myself as I thought about that. Up until this point, I hadn’t really tried to remember what had happened. Waking up extremely hungover and trying to remember the events of the previous night never really yielded great results in my experience. I usually remember only the most embarrassing things.
Now, I realized I didn’t actually remember going to a bar or buying alcohol. In fact, everything beyond mid-afternoon was a hazy, grey and red fog.
“I remember trying to take a picture of a fountain,” I replied slowly, not quite sure. I frowned and struggled to remember something more. “I think maybe there was an argument?”
“Do you remember anything else?”
I made a frustrated noise and shook my head. “I don’t remember anything else. I’m sorry.”
“There was... an accident,” he told me hesitantly. I really didn’t like the sound of that. “When you were first brought in, we didn’t think you’d pull through.”
“How long have I been here?” I demanded, panic leaking into my voice. The tangy, sweet smell rose around me, engulfing me; except this time, it wasn’t making me hungry.
“Two days.”
“Two days?” My voice cracked. “But you said you thought I wouldn’t pull through! I don’t have any injuries!”
“Miss McIntire, please calm down,” he said, looking somewhat alarmed. Despite my panic, I tried to do what he asked. I took a few deep breaths, and though they didn’t really help, I didn’t feel like screaming at the doctor until he answered my questions.
“Please, just tell me what the hell is going on,” I said, not yelling but emphasizing each word.
“A lycanthrope went berserk,” he said, voice soft and full of compassion. The room’s temperature dropped several degrees as my insides turned to ice. “We were able to treat the other survivors, but your wounds were so severe there was nothing we could do.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m sorry, Miss McIntire, we had no choice.”
“Just tell me what you’re trying to say!”
Dr. Phillips flinched, going a little pale. “You’re a lycanthrope. A werehyena.”
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In Chains