The Hollow Gods (The Chaos Cycle #1)

Chapter 16

Chapter

Sixteen

Stealing a blood sample was surprisingly easy. During his time as a doctor, Mason often saw trays of them laid out in the hall for anyone to take. But why would they? Blood theft wasn’t expected. Not to mention, nurses were overworked, and hospitals understaffed, so it wasn’t uncommon to find labs empty and accessible. Small-town hospitals like Ashgrove’s didn’t even require ID tags to get inside. All Mason had to do was stroll in when no one was looking, check the previous day’s collections for a John Doe, and slip the sample in his coat pocket. It would be viable at room temperature for only a few hours, so he had to move fast.

When Mason returned to Annabelle’s, he hid the blood behind a yogurt container in the fridge. It would be good there for another twenty-four hours. Despite being in dire need of rest, even a catnap was impossible. Mason’s mind was working harder than a steam engine, desperately grappling with cold, hard evidence of the impossible. John Doe’s disappearance only left him more mystified. One minute he was there, unconscious as a rock, the next—gone.

Mason began pacing, searching for an avenue through which he could pursue the mystery. He kicked off his clothes and hopped into the shower. There had to be some poor Ph.D. student holed up in a lab at the University of British Columbia who’d be willing to look at the blood for some extra cash. He just needed to make sure they were the right kind of person. And that he had it in him to take a day trip back to Vancouver.

It was ironic, he thought, how his attempt to flee the city had led him right back to it.

As a former graduate of UBC, he had no trouble navigating their clustercuss of a website. After browsing the graduate student profiles in a fair number of science departments, Mason settled on a candidate he felt might be trustworthy: Sashka Lavovi?, a tan-skinned foreign exchange student who looked to be about his age, and a doctoral candidate in the field of genetics. Her expression was sombre, tired bags evident under her slate-grey eyes as she peered directly into the camera. She didn’t look happy. Then again, graduate students never did.

Composing an email was harder than he’d thought. After scrapping and rewriting several drafts, he finally settled on a vague but only partially dishonest explanation: He was a doctor with a sample of unusual blood from a patient, and he needed more powerful equipment to study it. The matter was time-sensitive and couldn’t go through official channels. It was odd, but not convincingly bat-shit. Taking a deep breath, he clicked send, squeezing his eyes shut and praying that Miss Lavovi? wasn’t the sort to be overly concerned with rules.

It only took several nerve-wracking hours of half-hearted web-browsing before Mason heard his inbox ping.

Sashka Lavovi? was willing to conduct tests—for five hundred dollars and a signed NDA.

He scrambled to write something coherent back to her. It was still morning and the entire day was open for seedy shenanigans. Miss Lavovi? seemed easygoing enough, inviting him to the lab for lunch. This gave him just enough time to pack his laptop and withdraw the cash before whipping down the highway to Vancouver.

While Mason wasn’t the best with spontaneity, it stopped him from thinking too hard. Had Sashka given him more time to consider, he might have panicked at the idea of revisiting the place he lost Amanda. Luckily, the campus was far enough that he could easily avoid the hospital. This was his best chance, he thought. He had to take it. After all, understanding John Doe’s blood could hold the key to Mason’s redemption. His previous mistakes may have set him on a path that would lead to incredible discoveries—discoveries that could one day save or better thousands of lives.

Mason’s world view was shifting back into place. He’d always wanted to be a doctor. When he was twelve, he lost his favourite aunt to breast cancer. She was the reason he was determined to make a difference in the field of oncology. Unlike his parents, who seemed hard-pressed to make sure he spent every waking hour preparing for an elite university education, Aunt Lisa had spoiled her curly-haired, near-sighted nephew with comic books and tales of superheroes.

After Aunt Lisa passed, Mason’s parents never again had to make a peep about his idleness. By the start of high school, he was the top of his class, and by the end of it, he had several offers from the best of Ivy League. After his undergraduate degree at Cornell, Mason returned to enrol in UBC’s medical school. He was accepted immediately, and his family welcomed him home with proud, open arms. Aunt Lisa may have been gone, but what she left behind became the fuel for Mason to follow his dream of helping people conquer cancer.

Just as Aunt Lisa’s death had been the catalyst for his choice of career, perhaps Amanda’s death was paving the way to something more than doubt and guilt. It was about the bigger picture, he told himself. He’d forgotten that when he’d slipped into his grief.

Feeling a surge of hope, Mason dressed with renewed vigour and left a note for Annabelle. She’d gone out shopping, leaving him with a spare set of keys while she was gone. Grateful for her thoughtfulness, he jumped into his car and set off on the road. He was beginning to feel like his old self again.

Being back at UBC was bittersweet. Mason still knew his way around like the back of his hand, and it didn’t take long to find the chemistry building where Sashka Lavovi? told him to meet her.

She was waiting for him in one of the labs on the second floor—a plump young woman with long, honey-blonde hair that was tied back in a high ponytail, her bangs swept to the side. She looked as tired in person as she had in her photo, her oval face pale from lack of sleep.

“You must be Dr. Evans,” she greeted him with an Eastern European accent, her expression stoic.

“That’s right.” Mason nodded, trying to sound chirpy for the both of them. He extended a hand to her, and after they exchanged a shake, he sat down on a nearby stool, unsure of where to begin. Before he could say anything, she handed him the non-disclosure contract.

“Did you bring the blood sample?” She cut to the chase after he signed it.

“Yes, yes, I did,” he stammered. “But first, I just want to clear up a few…ethical concerns.”

She said nothing, waiting for him to continue, so he cleared his throat and pulled out a small icebox housing the vial.

“I’ve never really done something like this before, but I just want to make sure we’re on the same page. I also want to keep this quiet.” He paused, thinking about how to continue. “This blood is...atypical. It’s from a patient I would like to know more about. I can’t quite tell you what’s atypical about him though. I’m hoping your tests might offer some clues.” He turned the box in his hands, fiddling with the zipper. “I don’t normally break the rules like this. I think rules exist to protect people from making bad choices, yet here I am.”

Sashka remained quiet, her face revealing nothing of what was going through her mind. When he finished, she crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the wall. “I understand, Mr. Evans. While I don’t share your obsolete idealism, I assure you this test will remain private. I have no intention of jeopardizing my career. And frankly, I don’t really care what it is you’re doing.”

While that certainly wasn’t what Mason expected, he figured it was good enough. “That’s true. I’m sure you’ve put a lot of work into your research.”

She shrugged, shifting her weight. “To be honest, the only reason I took you up on this is because I’m strapped for cash.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mason replied.

“It can’t be helped.” She shook her head, smiling for the first time. “Funding is scarce.”

His doubts quelled, Mason handed her the sample, along with half the amount he’d agreed to pay. “I just need to know how this blood is different from ordinary blood,” he told her. “The hospital microscope isn’t powerful enough to take a closer look.”

She frowned, probably perplexed, but nodded. “I take it this is human blood?”

“It should be.” Mason nearly choked back the words. He didn’t want to reveal too much, yet he already felt dishonest. “But I will say that it didn’t present as human blood under our microscopes,” he added quickly. “In any case, take a look and let me know what you find.”

“An odd request, Dr. Evans.” The young woman sighed. “Very well. I’ll run some tests. I have some other responsibilities to deal with first, so come back in a few hours.”

“Thank you.”

With that, she stood up and walked into an adjoining room where he assumed the heavy-duty equipment was waiting for her. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck, tickling him until he rubbed it away. The blood should be human. It came from a human body. But the hospital’s analysis indicated otherwise.

While waiting for Sashka to run tests, Mason tried visiting some of his former professors’ offices but found them locked and dark, so he wandered aimlessly in search of his former self. He realized how much he’d taken for granted, how much safer being on campus had made him feel, and how familiar places, like his favourite sandwich shop, had given him a sense of community. It stood in stark contrast to how unmoored he’d become.

It wasn’t until later in the afternoon that Mason returned to the labs and Sashka emerged with a file and a deep-seated scowl. She looked ready to cut into him.

“Dr. Evans, is this some kind of joke?”

“I’m sorry?” Mason asked, puzzled.

“The sample you gave me, from your patient ,” she began, leafing through the sheets. “It’s not human blood. No ABO antigens.”

“Yes...”

She looked at him quizzically. “But you already knew that.”

“Yes.” Mason averted his gaze.

“You told me that it didn’t present as human, not that it plainly was not human! Why not simply ask me to do a species identification test?” She sounded irritated, crossing her arms over her chest.

“It’s complicated. But nothing bad. I hope you understand.”

Sashka sighed and shook her head. “Did someone mix your samples up with those of a veterinary hospital?”

“What do you mean?” He sat up, shifting around in his chair.

“When I first looked at the sample, I saw markers suggesting the blood was canine.”

A cold shudder shook Mason’s spine. “Canine? Like, a dog?”

“Yes, like a dog, Dr. Evans.” She arched an eyebrow. “But the subject is not a domestic dog. While the blood you gave me has canine antigens, it’s from some other species. So I ran some more tests and cross-checked them with a database.”

“And...?”

“Well, given our geographic location, I surmised the most likely candidate was a wolf or coyote. I checked first for wolf-specific DNA markers. Your subject is male, and male wolves have particular Y chromosome markers. I analyzed the blood for those and compared your sample to our available databases of wolf haplotypes. I also cross-checked the genotype data and tested for 22 DNA short tandem repeat markers. These have variants specific to wolves.”

Mason swallowed several times, trying to dislodge the lump in his throat. “So, he’s—”

She tossed the file in his lap. “Canis lupus. More specifically, a Siberian gray wolf. I found genetic markers indicating the wolf’s bloodline is from Russia. Most likely.”

“Most likely?”

“It’s highly probable.” She shrugged, dipping her hands into her coat pockets. “Like I said, we have to test for markers and cross-check with genetic databases. One marker alone isn’t enough to come to a conclusion, but I’ve compiled enough evidence to say with confidence that you’re looking at wolf’s blood.”

Mason stared down at the file, unblinking. Air came to a halt in his throat every time he tried to inhale.

“Dr. Evans?” Sashka inquired. “Are you all right?”

He cleared his throat. “Y-yes, I’m fine.”

Sashka regarded him with mild interest, then pulled back as if fighting to maintain her aloofness. “There was one anomaly, however.”

His eyes shot up. “What is it?”

“I can’t quite say,” she admitted. “But your wolf seems to have a genetic mutation not yet documented by the Trent University Wolf and Coyote DNA Bank. The mutation may be recorded elsewhere, but currently, this was the only pool of data I could access for analysis.”

“I see,” Mason mused. He needed to speak with Jazlyn—fast. “Thank you so much for your time.” He dug into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. “And thank you for your discretion with this. I know it all seems bizarre, but you’ve really helped me out.”

He smiled warmly and handed her the rest of the cash. She rubbed the money between her fingers as if to make sure the thickness was about right.

“You’re welcome,” she said, folding the bills and curling her fingers around them.

Without much else to say, Mason grabbed his coat and nodded curtly, stepping past her and speeding towards the door. When he was finally outside, he took a deep breath, then zigzagged through the parking lot and mashed the buttons on his car remote until he saw the trunk pop and the lights flash. Locking himself in his car and fumbling for his phone, he scrolled through his contacts and nearly missed tapping the right one three times.

“How are you awake right now?” Jazlyn pummelled him after two rings.

“Don’t ask,” he chuckled. “Lots of coffee and adrenaline.”

“Uh-huh, and your OCD.”

“Okay, maybe that too. But it’s paying off! My mind is blown right now, and I need to tell someone.”

“Kay’, I’m listening.”

“Don’t freak out!” he implored. When she went quiet, he relayed the details of his day.

“Christ,” Jazlyn hissed. “You’re sure?”

“As sure as I’ve ever been. Unless you’ve got some sicko switching patient blood with wolf’s blood.”

“No way,” she said immediately. “I know security is pretty lax at the hospital, but even if there was some kind of weirdo doing crap like that, the time frame’s way too tight. You checked that blood out barely hours after it was drawn.”

“Exactly.”

“Well, consider me officially freaked out by this weird-ass town,” she huffed after a respectable pause.

“No kidding,” Mason mumbled back. “Now I really need to look up Kai Donovan.”

“About that,” she interjected, “I was feeling a little devious, I guess, so I might have gone and done that already.”

“Seriously?” Mason all but jumped up. “Damn, thank you, Jaz. I really wasn’t expecting that.”

“Don’t mention it, Cap. And well, I just told myself it was to find a missing patient.”

“That’s fair,” he conceded. “So, did you find anything?”

“Not a damn thing,” Jazlyn sighed. “In fact, we don’t even have any Donovans in Black Hollow. There’s obviously a bunch in the province, but none with Kai as a first name. Found a Kevin and a Kyle, but they’re both middle-aged. I was pretty bored, so I called ‘em up and asked if they knew a Kai or a young guy spending time in Black Hollow, but they sounded confused and had no damn clue what I was on about.”

The news was dejecting, but unsurprising given the number of strange occurrences. “Empty, huh?”

“Yep.” The seconds yawned out before she spoke again, “You know, I think you’re right. Kai Donovan is John Doe. Maybe he’s not even Canadian. Could be from elsewhere and ran away from the hospital ’cause he didn’t want to pay the bill.”

Mason’s breath halted as he remembered what Sashka said— Siberian. “But why would he have his own name written down in his wallet?”

“Who the hell cares?” she chided him lightly. “There could be a million reasons. Maybe he’s dissociative. Maybe he’s a thirteen-year-old girl doodling in the margins of a notebook. Maybe an old lover wrote it and it’s got sentimental value.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Mason drifted off into thought, realizing just how much there was they didn’t know. “We have to find him,” he said suddenly. “We have to find this John Doe or Kai Donovan or whoever.”

“But…why?”

As Mason contemplated how to answer, his hand clipped a small mass pressed against his thigh. Digging into his pocket, he felt around the three, smooth edges, his heart pounding. How on earth had that gotten there?

The dream stone—he couldn’t remember putting it in his pocket. In fact, he had no memory of what he’d done with it since meeting Gavran, but he was sure these were different pants.

Was Gavran calling him back?

“Because I just can’t let this go,” his voice broke through the silence, and he pushed down the chill that ran up his spine. “I’m holding this file in my hand, and it’s telling me that the blood of a man is wolf’s blood. The whole night I kept hearing nurses whispering about wolves and the Dreamwalker. I kept rolling my eyes and wanting to school them on psychiatric medicine, but now I feel like the joke’s on me. What if he’s something else, Jaz? You saw how fast he healed. Whatever he is, maybe he can help people. People who could use some of that freakish healing.”

He heard her exhale on the other end. Did she think he was being foolhardy? “I don’t know about that, man. But I’m kind of glad you’re the one who looked at his blood. If someone else working at the hospital had done it first, the whole town would be up in arms.”

“Shit, Jaz—you’re right. Knowing how superstitious they are—”

“Just go get some rest,” she interrupted. “We can figure this out after you’ve slept and had time to let this stuff digest.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” He ran a hand over his face, his eyes burning from lack of sleep. “I’ve got some explaining to do to my host, too. I’ve been kind of MIA lately, and I think she’s worried about me.”

“All right, well, call me when you’re lucid, Cap.”

Mason smiled to himself, warmed by her support. “Thanks, Jaz.”

After saying goodbye and hanging up, Mason sat in his car for a good twenty minutes before driving back to Black Hollow. When he walked through the door of his lodgings, Annabelle was waiting for him in the lounge, her face brightening when she laid eyes on him.

“There you are!” she beamed. “I was starting to worry you’d drowned in your touristic research.”

“Nah.” He smiled tiredly. “I was catching up with a friend from school. She’s been working at the hospital. It’s been a while, so we got a little carried away, I guess.”

“Oh, well, that’s nice!” she said absently as she put her book down. “You do look awfully tired, though. Shall I make you an early dinner?”

He nodded, energized by the prospect of Annabelle’s cooking. “That would be really great.”

For a moment he caught a flicker of concern in her eyes, though it was gone as quickly as it had come. She headed towards the kitchen, calling back to him as she set some water to boil on the stove. “I know it ain’t my business, Mason, but you look real worn out for someone who’s just been with a friend. Is everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine,” he said as he wandered after her. Standing in the kitchen doorway, he watched as she prepared the ingredients, chopping vegetables and sliding them effortlessly into the pot. A question burned on the tip of his tongue.

“Annabelle,” he started, shifting his weight. “I’m not sure how to ask this. In fact, I don’t really know what I’m asking.”

She turned towards him, waiting expectantly for whatever he had to say next. Feeling the pressure, he blurted out in a quiet, mousy voice, “Are there wolves here, in Black Hollow?”

Several moments went by, but Annabelle’s expression remained unchanged—impossible to read even as they locked eyes and stared into one another, digging for the right layer of meaning implied in the question.

Then, without warning, she began to laugh. “Well, of course there are!” She flicked her wrist at him before resuming her chopping. “They’re everywhere! Why else do you think there’s a wolf cull?”

The tension dissipating, he ventured more boldly. “It’s got nothing to do with people being afraid of the Dreamwalker coming back? I know Elle Robinson was already murdered because of that fear.”

“You really have been looking into the town’s history, and through my son’s work,” Annabelle spoke with her back turned to him, but he could hear the strain in her voice.

“You’re also scared to talk about it?”

“No, not me, personally.” She placed the last of the ingredients in the pot. “But you have to understand, fear runs deep. This town has a lot of secrets, and if you keep digging for them, you’ll end up burying yourself alive.”

Mason smiled sympathetically. “It’s just a story, Annabelle. It’s not real.”

“Stories aren’t concerned with what’s real and what isn’t real.”

“I’m not sure I understand what you’re trying to say,” he said, frowning. “Why call anything a story if there’s no distinction between reality and fantasy? Fact and fiction?”

It was her turn to smile sympathetically, her expression peeling away the layers of his staunch rationality like a mother reminding her son that he wasn’t as wise as he thought.

“Stories aren’t told to convey the facts. They’re told to convey the truth.”