The climate of the pre-dawn Haven was a held breath. Tonight, the ghost healers would not be working behind houses or out of the back of vans. Tonight, they would enter the very heart of the human world's war against the plague: a great city hospital on the brink of ruin.
The target was Budapest's St. Florian's Hospital, a proud facility brought low to drowning in the deluge of Hyperion. Its hallways crowded with the dying and ill, its personnel stretched to the breaking point, its morgue full. It was the perfect place for ghosts to operate—chaotic, overextended, and praying for miracles.
Orrin Dusk stood before the mirror in the Aethelred prep room, but the face was not his. Off was the tracker, the deep woods fighter. In his place was Dr. Emil Rostov, a trauma surgeon from Minsk, secon
