Warehouse 13: A Touch of Fever (32 page)

The stranger cut a swath through what was left of her audience, infecting people left and right. He swept his left arm before him to clear a path to the stage. Like her, he didn’t need to touch anyone to get to them. Fog billowed from his glove, throwing off infection with every wave of his hand. The plague felled all it touched. People dropped like flies, convulsing upon the ground. They coughed and moaned. Some even vomited.

“This is effed-up!” Jim tried to drag her away. “Come on! We can still get away!”

“No!” She yanked her arm free. “You go! I can help them!”

She had to undo whatever the stranger was doing. Her face wrinkled in concentration as she called upon the full power of the glove.
Help me, Clara!

The spectral nimbus enveloping her hand intensified. Blazing blue light shone through the noxious gray mist, driving it back. The stranger was slowed as well. He staggered backward, as though repelled by the light, but quickly regained his footing.

“Very well.” A sardonic smile played upon his thin lips. He threw out his left hand. “Let’s see what you’ve got!”

A battle of wills ensued. Left versus right. Sickness versus health. Blue against gray. Caught in the middle, hundreds of innocent victims thrashed in agony upon the grass, their bodies and souls pummeled by conflicting waves of infection and relief. Nadia tried to heal them all, over and over again, even as the stranger spread his disease like wildfire. The luckiest souls, farther away from the conflict and as yet untouched by the fog, ran screaming from the meadow. Their headlong flight threw the entire fair into an uproar. Thousands of confused and frightened people, most not even knowing what had started the panic, started running as well. Pandemonium emptied the park, except for those who were already too ill to escape. They flailed about in torture.

This is a nightmare,
Nadia thought, her heart breaking.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I only wanted to help people!

The weather was going wrong too. Angry black clouds came charging in from nowhere, hiding the sun. They clotted thickly overhead. Howling winds tore through the abandoned fair, blowing over deserted tents and booths. New Age pamphlets and trinkets flew about wildly. Fallen leaves swirled like red, yellow, and brown dust devils. The temperature dropped to freezing. What had been a beautiful fall afternoon turned bleak and wintry.

Just like in Fairfield.

Clara Barton’s gloves, separated by time and fate, yearned for each other. Nadia felt the other glove pulling on her. Her palm itched like an entire colony of ants had burrowed beneath the glove and were chewing voraciously on her flesh. His arm outstretched, the stranger marched toward her, callously stepping over and around the convulsing bodies strewn in his path. Despite herself, Nadia stepped off the box. She lurched toward him.

“Wait! Where are you going?” Jim grabbed her around the waist, holding on to her like a lifeline. The irresistible force surprised him. “Son of a bitch! It’s sucking on you!”

“Run!” she urged him. “Don’t let him get you!”

“Not a chance!” He strained against the pull until they were leaning at nearly a forty-five-degree angle. Veins and tendons bulged on his neck. He grunted through clenched teeth. “I’m not going to let you go!”

“You have to!” She tilted forward, dragging him behind her. Both of his arms were wrapped around her. Callused fingers, strengthened by years of knife practice, dug into her side. “Please, Jim. Save yourself!”

“Not without you!”

They were fighting a losing battle, but she couldn’t give up. While Jim pulled with all his might, she kept trying to dispel the contagion spreading from the other glove. It was getting harder, though. She had never before healed so many people, so horribly sickened, and she had already felt wasted
before
the dreadful stranger had crashed her party. Now the strain was killing her. Perspiration beaded on her forehead and dripped into her eyes. Her head felt like it was going to explode. She was sick to her stomach. This was worse than ever before. Despite the cold, she felt like she was burning up.

But she couldn’t surrender. Too many innocent pilgrims were depending on her.

I can do this,
she thought, even as she shivered uncontrollably.
My glove is just as strong as his.

But was she?

The stranger moved toward her decisively. His once ashen face was pink with health. A triumphant grin mocked her efforts. “What’s the matter?” he heckled her. “Feeling a little under the weather, are we?”

It wasn’t fair. He seemed to be getting stronger even as she got weaker. The blue light began to dim. A fetid gray fog bank rolled toward her.

Ferocious winds assailed the stage from all directions. The painted backdrop tore loose from one post and flapped noisily behind her. It cracked like a gunshot. The red fabric draped over her seat blew away, exposing the folding aluminum lawn chair underneath. The chair tumbled across the carpet. The air was full of flying debris. Dry leaves and litter smacked against her face.

“Holy crap!” Jim yelled over the wailing winds. He shifted his grip around her waist, struggling to hold on. “Watch out!”

The overturned chair took flight. It came zooming at her head like a missile and he spun her around, shielding her with his own body. The chair clipped him in the side of the head. Airborne metal collided with flesh and bone, yielding a nauseating
thunk.
He grunted in pain. “Aaagh!”

“Jim?”

The chair bounced away. Nadia twisted her head to look behind her.

“Jim! Ohmigod, Jim!”

Blood dripped from his scalp. His arms slipped away from her waist. He reeled backward, clutching his head. His fingers came away stained with red.

“I’m sorry, babe,” he said weakly. “I promised to take care of you. . . .”

He collapsed onto the carpet.

“Jim!”

She wanted to go to him, heal him, but the gloves chose otherwise. Without Jim to anchor her, she was yanked off her feet in the opposite direction. She stumbled helplessly toward the stranger. The Fever Man.

“At last we meet.” His bony face held an arrogant smirk. “You may not know it, but I’ve been following your career for some time now.”

They came together at the edge of the stage. He seized her throat with his right hand while his gloved left hand grabbed onto her right. Thunder boomed overhead as the two gloves met. A sudden shock jolted Nadia. The ghastly fog swirled about their ankles. Her palm stopped itching.

“Let go of me!” She struggled to get away, but he was stronger, healthier. She was too sick to fight back. Her limbs felt like lead weights; she could barely lift them. The world spun dizzily around her. She couldn’t catch her breath. “Who . . . who are you?”

He tightened his grip on her throat. “Under the circumstances, I hardly think introductions are required.” Busy fingers unbuttoned her glove at the wrist. He tugged on the precious relic. “I’m not interested in you, only this miraculous glove.”

“No, don’t!” Her heart sank as she felt the cozy leather slide off her fingers. “It’s mine!”

“Not anymore.” Spittle sprayed from his lips. His sour breath made her gorge rise. “You have no idea how long I’ve been searching for this particular item. My whole life, really.”

The glove came away from her fingers, leaving her. He shoved her away and she tumbled to the ground, where she joined the hundreds of other quaking bodies strewn across the meadow. The fog surrounded her, seeping into her bones and invading her lungs. Too weak to get up again, she choked on the fumes. Chills and fever ravaged her prostrate form. She clawed feebly at the ground, trying to get away. The nausea was overpowering. She threw up in her mouth.

“Clara Barton’s gloves,” the Fever Man gloated. He stood amidst a field of agonized victims, like a scene out of Dante’s
Inferno.
He caressed the stolen glove reverently. “You never deserved this. You could never appreciate how much I needed it. It always belonged with me.”

The gloves were a perfect match.

“They belong together.”

He stepped away from the false healer. She didn’t matter anymore.

Even before he put it on, he could feel the power of the glove. It called to him like a drug. Fumbling with excitement, barely able to contain himself, he slipped it onto his naked right hand. White kid leather magically stretched to accommodate him. Eager fingers wiggled into the glove. He couldn’t don it fast enough.

Finally!

For the first time in generations, the gloves were reunited. Worrall stiffened in shock as their power met and merged within him. He stretched out his arms. Silver lightning arced between the matching gloves before blinking out of sight. His bloodshot eyes cleared. Constricting veins receded beneath his skin. A ruddy pink glow tinted his cheeks. Every last trace of fatigue and illness vanished from his body. He had never felt so alive, so powerful. He flexed his fingers.

At long last, he held both life and death in his hands.

Surging clouds circled above him, heralding his long-delayed apotheosis. An icy wind lifted the corners of his coat. No longer caught in the crossfire of his duel with the girl, the anonymous masses littering the meadow stopped convulsing. Devastated by their ordeal, they sprawled comatose upon the ground. Their still and silent forms surrounded him like a garden of cadavers.
Let them sleep,
he thought coldly.
They were just getting in my way before.

He sneered at the girl on the carpet. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this.”

“Who are you?” she whimpered, too weak to lift herself. Her bare right hand reached futilely for the stolen glove. Anguished eyes filled with tears. “What are you going to do with them?”

“Whatever I feel like, I suppose.” To be honest, he hadn’t given it much thought. He had always been too intent on finding the glove—and healing himself—to worry much about what came next. But now that he felt the power of both gloves coursing through his veins and sinews, all sorts of intoxicating possibilities flooded his imagination. “I’ve wasted too much of my life being sick and miserable. It’s about time I enjoyed myself and lived life to the fullest.” He held up his hands, admiring the gloves. They fit perfectly, as though custom-made. “These treasures are the key to my success.”

“No,” she moaned. “You don’t understand. The glove is a gift. You need to use it to help people, like I did. . . .”

“And look where that brought you.” Her pathetic state was an unwelcome reminder of all the hours he’d spent sick in bed, too wretched to go anywhere or do anything. Years of envy and resentment demanded expression and he kicked her in the ribs, punishing her for hoarding
his
glove for so long. She rolled away from him, clutching her side. Worrall relished her misery. “You’re the one who doesn’t understand. With these gloves, I alone will choose who will live and who will die.” He gazed out over the stricken rabble spilled across the meadow. The sight of so many helpless victims, all lying pitifully at his feet, only fueled his fantasies. His voice rose in exultation. “Heads of state and titans of industry will plead for my favor and fear my wrath. I’ll sicken entire nations if I feel like it, and bestow my blessings only on those who pledge allegiance to me. . . .”

“Yeah, right,” a female voice intruded. “Like we’re going to let that happen.”

22

CENTRAL PARK

Myka faced Worrall across a field of sick and dying people. The grassy meadow resembled a battlefield after the shooting was over. The Civil War had finally come to Central Park, only a century or so late. She advanced carefully to avoid stepping on any of Worrall’s unconscious victims. They moaned and whimpered all around her, dazed and thoroughly out of it. Nobody appeared to be dead yet, but Myka couldn’t be sure of that. There were far too many casualties to check on right away. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen this many innocent bystanders affected by a single artifact at the same time. Maybe that night with Lucrezia Borgia’s comb, or the riot at the prison?