Accidental God 2.0 -- Section 13

[It's something. Writing still isn't as fluid as I'd like it to be, but it's fun again. Problem is, there are so many pieces to this story, it's hard to keep them all together. Hint at this here, show a bit of that there, and--doh! I left something out!

[Ah, well. You get what you pay for.]

    Vera Mason woke up with dry lips. In fact, her whole body felt dry, and her chest was stuffed with quilt batting. She opened her eyes and the room was black. Then she realized her eyes were still closed. That was strange. She was sure she’d opened them. She tried again. Still dark. She blinked, and the room came into focus. It wasn’t dark, just dim. Something clear was hanging above her head, like a floating blister. Ah, an IV bag, or whatever it was called. Who was it hooked up to?
    The pieces fell into place: the Thai restaurant, the panicked feeling as breathing became harder and harder, and then impossible. That toothpick of a waiter, hadn’t she told him about peanuts? She was sure she had, and his face had been quick, intelligent. He wouldn’t have forgotten. Maybe she’d misjudged him?
    She blinked again and tried to swallow. It ached, like her throat was bruised from the inside. What did they do to treat anaphylactic shock? Whatever they’d done, it had worked, apparently. So why didn’t she feel better? She should be feeling better. She’d inherited the power of a god.
    Where was it?
    “Are you awake, Senora Mason?”
    Vera rolled her head sideways. They were there together, the Spanish husband and wife, like they usually were. Jose was standing behind the chair, his posture gently erect under his white hair, and Maria Teresa sat, her knees together, her hands folded on her lap. It was as if the elderly couple were posing for a portrait that would be hung at one of the several universities they’d sponsored over the years. The small table next to them was covered in a surprisingly large yet somehow tasteful floral arrangement.
    Vera licked her lips again. “What time is it?” she whispered.
    “Slightly after six in the morning,” said Jose.
    “Then how?” Vera had to stop to swallow.
    “How what, Senora?”
    “How did you get flowers?”
    Jose’s eyebrows came down--he found Vera’s sense of humor perplexing--but Maria Teresa smiled. “Money is good for very few things,” she said. “Flowers at six in the morning is one of those few. But I suspect that what you’re truly wondering is how we found you at the hospital.”
    Vera had been wondering exactly that, and she had come up with only one possible answer. “Followed,” she croaked, and realized that her heart rate was up. She took a breath and tried to slow her breathing.
    “Yes, treasure, we had you followed.” Maria Teresa’s voice was soothing, or at least it was intended to be. Vera wasn’t sure yet whether she’d let it be calming or not. The elderly woman went on. “We always said we would let you do this, but we would never leave you without support. We had you followed, but he stayed well away. We wouldn’t do anything to confuse the link between yourself and that unfortunate Mr. Baernson. The transfer of power to you was as complete as possible.”
    Vera felt herself deflate. “Not complete,” she whispered. “It’s gone.”
    Jose sniffed. Vera knew him well enough by now to know that counted as an expression of deep concern--the man was practically shouting--but she didn’t have any better news to offer them. She didn’t know how it had happened, but the power that had poured into her, slowly at first, then in a rush as she waited for her food--all that was gone. She couldn’t feel that flood anymore. Absent. Empty. Nothing.
    “Are you certain?” asked Maria Teresa, her voice quiet. “I think it’s possible that the power might not have departed you entirely.”
    Vera took a quick assessment of her situation. Chest, aching like a small child was jumping on her. Head, aching like the first child had an older brother. Throat, dry; legs, stiff: nose, slightly clogged. She felt like an overused cloth handkerchief.
    “Pretty sure it’s gone,” she whispered, or tried to. Gone was the only word that came out clearly.
    “Perhaps not,” said Maria Teresa. “Consider for a moment what you’ve been through. According to your very pleasant nurse, who seemed to know his business, you were dead for nearly ten minutes. That means more than five minutes without oxygen reaching your brain, a condition that almost inevitably results in brain damage, comas, and other unpleasant things.” The elderly woman smiled. “And yet, here you are, awake and questioning not only our choice to have you followed, but our decisions on floral arrangements. These are not the normal reactions of a person who should be in a coma. So I ask you again, Vera, are you certain the power is gone?”
    Dead, thought Vera. She had been dead. Her mind had heard the rest of what Maria Teresa had said, but what caught in her mind was that one word: dead. So close. So close to being with Steven again--but they had brought her back. She took a deep breath--as deep as she could--and let it go. Not yet, she supposed. Still something to do, something to take care of.
    Vera forced herself to consider the rest of what Maria Teresa had said. Ten minutes without oxygen to her brain should have caused brain damage. How would a person tell if she were brain damaged? Not having any way to judge, Vera supposed that she’d have to go based on how she felt, and aside from feeling terrible, she felt fine. She knew who she was, where she was, and why she was there. And, practically speaking, if she were brain damaged, would it make any difference? She’d just have to go on with what she had and make do.
    But if she should be comatose, and she wasn’t--which she wasn’t--then it was a distinct possibility that Maria Teresa was right: the power wasn’t gone. But if she still had it, why was it so weak? With the power Forgotten Zed had stored up, she should be ready to run a marathon, lift a car, or both at the same time.
    Vera breathed in sharply and started coughing. She could see the elderly couple watching her, leaning forward in concern, but she had enough energy to wave them back with the hand not attached to an IV. I’m okay, she wanted to say, but she wasn’t. For the first time she was facing the possibility that she may have done everything right, but would still fail. What if this was all the power that Forgotten Zed had? What if he had squandered it, his violent inheritance from his father, daughters, sons, wife? She could imagine the old man, cut off from his faithful, from anyone to be faithful to, saving only enough power to keep himself past any use or usefulness. And then, in a final betrayal that the ancient god couldn’t even know he was committing, he would die and leave Vera with just enough power to fail, so close to her goal.
    She blinked at tears. She closed her eyes. She wouldn’t believe it. She couldn’t, because this was her only chance. The Three might not show themselves again for another ten, twenty, fifty years, and the odds that Jose and Maria Teresa could guess the next target accurately were impossibly slim. Maria Teresa had explained one night over a cup of tea, calmly discussing the millions they had spent, the years they had dedicated to finding these god-killers, finding who they were, what they wanted, what their weaknesses might be.
    Finally they had hit on two critical pieces of information: the leader of the Three hated Forgotten Zed, and, for the first time in centuries, Forgotten Zed was in the news again. It was a chance, and perhaps the only chance in any of their lifetimes. They would go to Northern Lights, Wisconsin, and they would do what they had to. The Three wouldn’t hurt any more innocents.
    So there was no stopping now. Vera left the tears to dry on her cheeks and turned back to the Spanish couple. “Water,” she said, and Jose stepped forward to give her a drink from the bottle waiting on her table. He leaned over her as she drank, helping her take a sip, then two, then gently pulled the bottle away. He was looking down at her, and Vera met his gaze. Jose grunted and smiled, turning back to Maria Teresa and saying something in Spanish. He pressed the bottle back into Vera’s hand and stepped back behind his wife.
    “What did he say?” asked Vera.
    “He said that you’re back.”
    Vera smiled. Jose was right. She was back, and it was time to get moving.
    “Do we know who got the rest of the power?” she asked.
    “We assume it was the waiter or the chef,” said Maria Teresa. “We’re having them both followed. When you’re ready, you can go have a talk with them.”
    When she was ready. That wasn’t soon enough for Vera, but it would have to be. Patience. With the power of a god in her--even just a fraction of that power--she should be mobile again quickly. And if the Three were as clever as she knew they were, going against them at less than one-hundred percent was suicide. Vera didn’t believe in suicide.
    She believed in revenge.