Vulnerable to the rampant evil of Shadows.
For God's sake, she thought irritably as she strode from the fourth-floor stairwell, these days she was bothered by a mere paper cut. She'd had to find new ways to move through this old world; stepping aside, moving around, and shrinking back instead of barreling through, clamoring over, and standing up. She'd had bruises for weeks after her transformation—bruises!—until she'd finally learned the limits of mortal flesh and blood. She was just thankful this learning curve wasn't being recorded in the manuals. How embarrassing would it be if the agents of Light knew she actually bruised?
How dangerous if the Shadow agents discovered she bled?
Zoe shivered and picked up her pace, her steps echoing through the wide sterile hallway as she settled her briefcase strap more firmly on her shoulder. It was still worth it. She no longer deserved the powers that had once made her extraordinary, and if she'd ever been a heroine worthy of the title, she would've passed on her chi before her daughter was almost murdered. But so intent had she been on her mission, her own deceitful life, that she hadn't even considered that possibility. So when it was too late, when all she could do was watch her Jo-baby fight for life—wires and tubes and casts canvassing her young body like she was caught in a web—Zoe knew there was only one title that mattered, and it wasn't Superhero.
It was Mother.
And she was determined to prove herself worthy of that. Tonight she'd tie up this final loose end and in doing so ensure the safety of all the loved ones she'd left behind—both mortal and supernatural. Then she'd spend the rest of her life in this fragile human skin as penance, hiding from both ally and enemy alike.
The nurses' station on the labor and delivery floor was eerily empty when she arrived. She heard a woman's cry from down the hall, a sound that had her belly tightening as she remembered the pangs of her own two births, but she needed to stay focused and quickly shook the memory off. Throwing a cursory glance over the rim of her owlish glasses, and spotting no one, she leaned over the admission's desk to thumb through the charts. Yep, there she was. Joanna Archer. Room 425.
Swallowing hard, Zoe headed that way.
She was three doors from her daughter's room when she heard the crying. She slowed, but told herself she wasn't stalling. Just being respectful. Compassionate. Human. At least, that was her excuse.
Peering around a doorway, she spotted a young couple dressed in unassuming street clothes, clinging to one another as the world spun heedlessly around them. She couldn't scent their sorrow as she'd have been able to six months earlier, but she didn't need to. Bleakness was printed on their faces; carved in the bend of the man's back as he held his wife, jackhammering her trembling shoulders as she wept.
"Can I help you?"
The voice, sharp and businesslike, came from directly behind her, and Zoe jolted before regaining her composure and turning. The nurse was older than she was, mid-forties probably, and wore her chopped hair in the same red Zoe had favored before being forced to dye it black for this new identity. Her eyes skirted to the nurse's name tag. Nancy was big-boned, her powder-blue scrubs putting Zoe in mind of a giant canvass of sky, and she wore comfortable soft-soled shoes, which was why Zoe hadn't heard her sneak up. Something else, she thought wryly, that wouldn't have happened six months ago.
"I'm Traci Malone," Zoe said, holding out a hand, palm down so the woman wouldn't catch sight of the glass-smooth pads where her fingerprints should be. "Case worker for the Archer adoption."
The nurse's face cleared, understanding replacing her businesslike wariness. She held up her hands, a warding-off motion, before withdrawing them again. "You'll excuse me for not shaking. I just came from delivery, and haven't had a chance to wash up yet."
Zoe's eyes wandered to the couple, still oblivious to all but their personal sorrow. Nurse Nancy saw the look and reached around Zoe to pull the door shut before shooting her a small, bittersweet smile. "Dennis and Andie were another of our patients' adoptees. Their baby didn't survive the birth."
"How terrible."
Nurse Nancy nodded solemnly, then shook it off with a philosophical sigh, just another day on the job. "Well, you certainly got here fast. I just got back from calling your adoptive parents. They're coming right away."
"The family called me first," Zoe lied in a murmur. "They'd like the paperwork and documentation completed as quickly and discreetly as possible."
"Bet they do," scoffed the nurse, causing Zoe to stiffen. "A pregnant teen, some fancy family name to protect. Guess money can't buy you everything, can it?"
Zoe managed a nod. Relatively speaking? Money could buy very little.