As he followed the kid—Cym, he corrected himself—down the stairs leading from Fourteen’s apartment into the open space of the warehouse he owned, he kept a close eye on the kid’s gait, noting Cym no longer looked as vulnerable as a week-old kitten.
Cym didn’t appear to be limping, but then Fourteen wouldn’t have appeared so if he’d been damaged. Showing off weakness to a stranger was likely to get him killed, so he powered through minor injuries until they healed. Cym might not operate that way, but Fourteen wouldn’t discount it. If they had to run, Fourteen would be ready to carry him again if necessary, but it would be his last resort.
The first time he’d touched Cym had overloaded Fourteen’s senses. Carrying Cym to his SUV had been disorienting and difficult—he’d had to stop and put the guy down several times to regain his equilibrium. Otherwise, he couldn’t have guaranteed no one had followed them.
While working on the mess Cym had made of his feet, Fourteen had drifted in and out of lucidity. He remembered talking with the boy, but he couldn’t have told anyone what it had been about. It should have bothered him more than it did. Was he so used to what The Company had done to him that missing time was a normal thing?
Unexpected emotion roused itself, but not toward Cym. It started in his chest, hot, bright, and sharp. It raced through Fourteen’s body, making the tips of his fingers tingle and his face burn. After being trapped so long in the cold of his mind, the heat of emotion was a shock to his system. It was all-consuming and powerful—but so was the cold. In seconds, his conditioning kicked in and swallowed the feeling, assimilating it into nothingness.
What the—?
The hole in his mind throbbed, fighting for Fourteen’s attention. Did the feeling have something to do with The Company and their tinkering?
Again, the feeling flared in his chest, and again, his conditioning swallowed it down. It seemed like it took longer the second time, giving him a chance to give it a name.
Rage.
Something about being with Cym or, more specifically, touching him, called out to something important Fourteen had lost. Fourteen wasn’t sure he wanted his conditioning to win.
“Who are you?” Fourteen kept his tone quiet, but it still caused Cym to flinch.
“Starting with the hard stuff first, huh?” Cym paused on the stairs and looked back at him.
“It wastes less time,” Fourteen said pointedly.
“Fine.” Fishing around in his pockets, Cym pulled out a hair tie, gathered his hair into a messy knot, and continued his descent. Several shorter strands escaped imprisonment to frame his pale face. “I’m a less-than popular-member of the Blaike family—a fusty but prominent family of witches in the magical community, or as we call it, the Other.” He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and turned to face Fourteen, clearly waiting for something.
“And?”
“I’m waiting for you to tell me I’m crazy.” Cym pulled his hood up to cover his hair. Fourteen nodded at the precaution in approval, Cym’s hair was an unusual shade and likely to draw attention.
“And I’m waiting for you to answer my question. When you finish telling your story, I’ll draw my own conclusions.”
Cym shook his head in bemusement. “I will, but, um, where are we?” His hand gestured to the cavernous warehouse they were in.
“South Boston. I own this warehouse. Technically it’s supposed to be used for storage, but I use it when I have a job in the area. Or, I did. Now that you’ve seen it, I’ll have to sell it.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”
“Don’t apologize. You weren’t conscious when I brought you here. It did its job; now it’s done.” Fourteen walked toward the enormous, black SUV parked inside the nearly empty warehouse, leaving Cym to follow in his wake.
“Subtle.” Cym snorted indelicately, making him appear far older than he looked. Fourteen hadn’t been trying to—groping unconscious people was not his thing—but he was pretty sure he’d felt some muscles on the guy’s small frame when he’d carried him earlier. The kind children didn’t have.
“It also does its job.” Fourteen unlocked it and got in on the driver's side. He liked his ride. Cym could walk if he had a problem with it.
Cym opened the passenger side door and got inside. “It’s better than walking, I guess. You did a good job on my feet, but the Granary Burying Ground is miles from here, and without shoes…” He winced.
“We can stop and get you shoes.” What did Cym need from a cemetery?
“There’s no need. We’re going to get my stash bag, which, hopefully, has a pair of shoes in it, among other things. I hid a few around town when I first got here. This is the only one left.”
Fourteen was impressed at Cym’s foresight. He didn’t imagine many civilians could have made it as far as Cym had. If a normal person thought of having even one place to leave supplies in case of an emergency, it would be unusual. Having several showed serious forethought and good survival instincts.
“Jeeze, it seems even bigger inside,” Cym said, looking small and out of place sitting in the passenger seat. He had to tuck the shoulder strap under his arm to keep it from going over his throat, and, once again, Fourteen was given the impression Cym was very young. Another uncomfortable emotion clamored inside of his chest, and he allowed the cold to swallow it.
“How old are you, really?” Fourteen blurted out.
It was relevant information that was pertinent to the situation. Cym had said society considered him a man, but he was from a different society than Fourteen. Fourteen had been to countries where the age of majority was sixteen, and if Cym was sixteen, he really shouldn’t be on his own.
That was the only reason he cared. Definitely.
“Back to story time, I suppose. Okay, you drive and I’ll talk. Do you know how to get to the cemetery?” When Fourteen nodded an affirmative, Cym began. “I had my nineteenth birthday six weeks ago.”
Fourteen tried not to feel relieved. Tried not to feel anything—something that was getting harder than he wanted to admit. Fourteen focused on starting the SUV and piloting it out of the warehouse as Cym talked.
“A month or so before my birthday, my cousin Astin came to me for the first time in years. He told me that my mother Elanor was dying. Being head of the family, this was causing quite a stir among the rest of the family. You see, powerful witches don’t die easily, and Elanor is a very powerful witch—most of the women in my family are. It came as a surprise to everyone when she started fading.” Cym was quiet for a minute and looked out at the boats in the harbor as they drove out of the marine park.
“Witches are beings with a direct line to the Source—the pool of magic where all life comes from. If a witch doesn’t die from an accident or foul play, she or he will keep on going until their soul can no longer connect to the Source. Once this happens, the witch will fade away and vanish into nothing.
“Witches with little power live as long as norms—or humans—do. A powerful witch like Elanor should have lasted a long time. My guess is that she’s older than most of us were led to believe, though she seemed to have been taken by surprise by this as well, so I could be wrong.
“According to Astin, once everyone found out Elanor was fading, they held a ceremony to divine who was supposed to be the next head of the Blaike family. Being born from magic means we’re ruled more tightly by it than other creatures. The universe decides who holds the mantle of power in each family, and it chose… me.” Cym’s voice cracked on the last word. It was a hopeless little sound that shot through Fourteen’s defenses like they were made of air.
“So they decided to kill you?” Fourteen wrestled with his control, but the harshness of his voice betrayed his anger.
Cym looked at him sharply, startled by his intensity.
“Why?” Fourteen brought his voice back under his command, and it sounded composed once again, but his hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. His conditioning was definitely taking longer to kick in.
