…..CHAPTER 5…..
Phoebe smiled coolly at the two men as they accompanied little Cara into the classroom. Trailing behind them was a younger man, who parked himself by the door, trying and failing to squeeze himself into obscurity. She caught a flash of metal at his wrist.
Self-consciously she hid her own empty wrist, but he hadn’t noticed her yet. He smiled affectionately at Cara before sweeping a green-eyed gaze around the overcrowded room; the class and their parents as they chatted, the children playing.
That look caught her off guard. A witch… Affectionate with his Handler’s family? She supposed it was bound to happen. As much as there were abusive Handlers, there were good ones. She’d encountered few Handlers, though. Of course, she’d rarely encountered witches at all. Families didn’t usually bring their witches with them to school, and while she saw them in public, following obediently behind their Handlers and helping with whatever was required, she never spoke to them.
Parent/teacher conferences were always hectic, and tonight was no exception. She’d been Miss Grady’s assistant teacher for two years now, this their third year together, and she liked Helen Grady for the most part, but the woman did have her prejudices. Helen eyed the witch standing inside the doorway with worry. Miss Grady wasn’t mean or cruel. She was fearful.
Helen had already met and consulted with half the class. Some had lingered for questions, while new ones arrived, sitting around the classroom in the tiny chairs meant for little butts. Phoebe secretly laughed at the sight every time.
But Cara’s dads didn’t sit in the chairs, and she knew why. Both men were big, especially the white dad, who looked like the proverbial lumberjack, shoulder-length blonde hair, beard, flannel shirt, and all. But even the mixed-race father was a big man.
Cara’s meeting was due soon, but Helen—with the family she was talking to tucked in the corner and away from the rest of the room for privacy—was running late. The girl, as always precocious, ran to the witch and snatched his hand. The young man, around Phoebe’s own age, looked uncomfortable as she dragged him into the room.
Or more precisely, toward her. Phoebe restrained a shiver of fear.
“Miss Donovan! Meet Uncle Oliver!”
“Cara,” he muttered. “That’s not…”
“Oh hush!” she said breezily, stopping in front of Phoebe.
“Yes, Cara,” he said, voice resigned. Phoebe dimly heard a man laughing softly and glanced to Mr. Dale, who watched with a wide grin, especially the witch, clearly wondering how he would handle this situation.
“This is Uncle Oliver. He’s a witch and he works with Daddy Oscar at the the Bureau!” she piped, clearly proud of him as she looked up at him. “He’s a level nine! Can you believe it?”
Yes. Yes, she could. The closer Cara had dragged him, the more she was bowled over by the power of his presence.
Phoebe’s fear ratcheted up another notch. She managed a weak smile. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”
He stared back, eyes sharpening from resigned and rueful amusement to piercing and knowing.
She swallowed hard, tugged her sleeves into her fists, and met Cara’s gaze. “You seem very proud of him.”
“Oh, I am! Oliver is sweet, he plays with me and Micah, and he totally pretends to be a hard-ass, but he’s too gentle to really be one, and Dad says he’s got too much heart to do anything to anyone unless they’re criminals and even then…”
Phoebe saw three things at once. Oscar Dale clapped a hand over his face, the other dad barely restrained a snort even as he chided her for her language with a broad grin, and the witch went red with embarrassment.
Phoebe bit her lip to restrain an involuntary laugh. “Cara! Language, please.”
Cara sailed right along. “…and he helps me with my homework. Sorry about the cussing. And Oliver always helps out around the house even though he only lives there half the time. He has his own home in the Bureau House, you know.” Somehow Cara inhaled for air and kept talking at the same time. “Oh, and Oliver keeps our house battery charged all the time so we don’t take from the grid. He also charges the local grid, too. Oliver likes to help with that, he says it keeps him from overloading because he always has energy to spare. And Daddy Oscar…”
Phoebe looked helplessly at the witch—Oliver—who stared back, just as powerless to stop the force of nature that was Cara’s mouth.
His gaze sharpened again. “Miss Donovan.”
She swallowed hard. “Witch Oliver,” she muttered.
Cara kept talking.
“How long have you been a teacher?”
“Teacher’s assistant,” she corrected lamely.
He didn’t answer, waiting.
“This is my third year.”
Cara squealed mid-word as her best friend arrived for her own conference. Cara abruptly abandoned her beloved uncle.
Oliver shook his head as he watched her bounce over to Nora, and the two immediately ducked their heads together for their latest mischief.
When his eyes returned to her, they were fierce.
Phoebe hardened her own. Fear—when she was not known—was one thing.
But this man knew…
Now wasn’t the time for either apparent timidity, or the fear that she lived and breathed every day.
“How familiar are you with history, Miss Donovan?” he murmured.
“Very,” she replied coolly.
“How about the law?”
“I’m versed.”
“Good to know,” he murmured.
“Excuse me, I need to go to the ladies room.” She turned and ducked out, heading for the adult bathroom. She didn’t look back, but she felt his presence follow her to the class entrance and stop.
Phoebe pushed the door, let it close behind her, allowed herself to gasp her fear and anger.
Dammit. I do not need this!
If only they’d not brought their witch with them! Most witches weren’t strong enough to detect another witch when they weren’t actively casting a spell. This one—this level nine hazard to her existence—could feel her power just by being in the same room with her, no magic involved.
Phoebe leaned over the sink, hands on the edge of the counter, dragging in deep breaths. She couldn’t go back in there with him. He at least suspected, but she was certain he knew. And one glimpse of her bare wrists would show him…
She stifled the panic. Dad wouldn’t appreciate her getting found out. She had to get out of here.
Phoebe spent enough time to make a bathroom break plausible, then exited. She stopped the first student she saw, a fourth grader if she remembered right. “Please go tell Miss Grady that I just got sick in the bathroom and have to go home.”
“Okay,” he said. She followed his progress enough to catch sight of the witch watching them, and turned for the teacher’s lounge where her locker held her purse and cellphone.
Footsteps followed, though how she knew they did with the hall ringing with the laughter of children, with the sound of adult conversations as parents greeted each other and talked, she wasn’t sure. Hyper aware of him on her tail, she pretended a casual walk, and went into the lounge. He didn’t follow.
Phoebe snatched open her locker, grabbed her stuff, and hurried to the backdoor, thankful he wouldn’t expect her to have an exit.
Outside, the dark of evening closed in around her. Phoebe tossed her purse strap across her body, hurrying toward her scooter. Her chatelaine clinked against her hip, and she silenced the metal with one hand, while lifting her keys with the other. She was one of the few these days that found a chatelaine useful rather than in the way. With frequent needs for scissors, her keys to various locks, her watch, which would get wet with all the hand-washing, and no cell phones allowed in the classroom, she used hers religiously.
But it did get in the way a bit. Especially when trying to sneak away. Still, she was alone in the parking lot, all teachers and assistants fully engaged inside.
Phoebe sighed when she found her scooter. Lifting the key, she put one foot on the platform.
“Going somewhere, Miss Donovan?”
She gasped and whirled.
Witch Oliver stood only feet behind her, and that closed when he stepped up quickly to snatch the key from her hand.
Attached to her by the chain, she wasn’t going anywhere.
“Home,” she snapped. “I’m not feeling well.”
“You seemed remarkably cheerful until I walked into the room.” His voice was amused, but there was a hint of steel in it.
She scowled. “I…I don’t like witches.”
“Hmmm. Not a good endorsement for your self-respect,” he said softly.
Phoebe drew a shaky breath. “I don’t know what you mean.” Her eyes were adjusting quickly to the dark. Although the parking lot was lit, the area where she parked her scooter lay in shadow from the overhang of the building. She glared at him, knew he could see it.
“How long have you been awake?”
“Since five this morning, if you must know.”
His mouth twitched with amusement. “So recently. Perhaps that’s why you’re not registered.”
“I’m a state certified and registered assistant teacher. I’ve got the diploma and everything to prove it, agent.”
Damn if those green eyes didn’t laugh at her continued deflection. “Saw my badge, did you?” His voice was rich with amusement. But the strength in it hadn’t wavered. How did he do that?
She realized that she had seen it. No one had introduced him as an agent. Or perhaps she’d assumed? Witches in the Bureau were considered agents, too.
He shifted his wool coat a bit to let her glimpse the badge at his waist. Yes, she had seen it, briefly, she realized.
“I’d like my key back, please.”
“What element?”
“What?”
“You know what I mean. Don’t make me ask again.”
Phoebe shivered in the cold November air. His humor had disappeared, leaving the steel behind.
“I don’t know what…”
He tugged the chain and she staggered a step closer. She stared up at him, though not as far as she had to to look Dad in the eye. Irrelevantly she guessed Oliver to be around five ten, because she was five seven.
Flashes of Dad’s furious, looming face made her gasp.
“Miss Donovan?” he murmured—a hint of worry in his voice.
How mercurial, her frantic mind noted. Of course, her own mind was zipping everywhere, too.
“Are you alright?” No more steel.
“I told you, I’m not feeling well,” she muttered, grasping last second at the dim memory of that lie.
“What element, and then I’ll let you go.”
Her jaw dropped. No way.
His mouth twitched again.
An agent of the W&R…let her go? Unregistered? What on earth?
“What element,” he whispered, steel again. She wished he’d make up his damn mind.
“Air,” she breathed, felt the lack of that very thing, and she couldn’t decide if it was fear or him that stole her breath.
“Why are you not registered? How have you hidden?”
“I-I…” She straightened from her near crouch of fear. “I answered you. I thought you would let me go.”
He sighed in exasperation. Somehow she was both amused and pleased to have done that to him.
But he did let her key go, and it clinked back into place with the other items against her skirt.
“Answer me, please.” His voice was still soft, with that edge of determination that she was wondering if it was part of his personality or his job.
“I can’t. My Dad…”
His eyes flitted with some emotion she didn’t catch. “What about him?”
“He’s going to be furious if I tell.”
“You’re an adult, Miss Donovan. I’m sure he’ll survive your independent decision to answer to authority.”
Phoebe hesitated. “You don’t understand. I can’t. I’ve already said way too much.”
She turned and stepped onto her scooter, snatching up her key. She started the engine, put it in gear, all without looking at him. She grabbed her skirts, fitting the length as well as her dangling equipment between her knees, and she took off.
He didn’t try to stop her.
On the way home, she managed to regain her calm. Until she arrived home, and the knowledge that Dad was going to be furious when he found out. But Dad was still at the school with his conferences. He was an actual teacher.
She would’ve been, too, if it weren’t for literally waking up a witch.
Phoebe shoved the memory of the gale whipping through her room from her mind, closing the garage door behind her. The kitchen was a mess from the morning rush. Their home battery had run out of energy during the night, so their alarm clocks hadn’t gone off, their showers had been ice cold, and breakfast had been hurried and not cleared. She’d barely had time to arrange for the grid to link to their home battery before leaving.
Phoebe set to cleaning, then started making dinner.
If Dad found out…
She hadn’t really admitted to being a witch. Oliver hadn’t really asked a direct question to that affect. She was safe.
Dinner was cubed steak, gravy, green beans, and a halved peach. It hadn’t ripened like she’d hoped it would, so the skin was a touch wrinkly. But food didn’t go to waste in this house. The only reason they lived in a house at all, on their salaries, was because it had been his grandparent’s home, so they owned it outright. She was the fifth generation living here.
Not the first witch, though. Her great-uncle Collin had been one. An Air witch. Before he died in World War II.
Phoebe shook her head of the nonsense, plating the food just as the garage door lifted.
Drawing a calming breath, she made sure the stove was turned off, then poured them tea.
“Phoebe,” Dad said as he came in from the garage, looking tired.
“Hi Dad.”
He frowned at the meal. “I thought you didn’t feel good. Helen said you went home early.”
She nodded. “I don’t feel well.”
His gaze searched her, then he frowned, eyes going dark. “Phoebe, talk.”
She looked away, fussing with the napkin holder, the salt and pepper shakers. “About what?”
He made in impatient sound. “Something is going on. Did that man sense you?”
Dad knew. She restrained the panic. “No!” Phoebe sat down, picked up her glass and downed nearly half of it.
“Sick, huh.”
She hurriedly put the glass down, staring at it. Someone actually ill wouldn’t be making dinner. Wouldn’t be drinking tea like it was a hot day—wouldn’t be sweating in fear.
“Talk,” he said coldly.
Phoebe closed her eyes, breathing too hard. Fear warred with the deeply buried rage. It had taken her so long to realize the rage even existed. But it did, and every year, every day even, it clawed at her.
“Phoebe,” his voice dropped. The anger was coming.
“It’s alright. He…didn’t say anything.”
“He’s from the W&R, for christ’s sake.”
Dad had to have asked questions, for him to know that. Or he looked up the parent when he heard a witch was there tonight. Likely that last.
“Did he talk to you?”
No point lying since he’d clearly asked questions. “Yes.”
“About it?”
It. The words magic and witch never left Dad’s mouth.
He would know what happened in the classroom. He couldn’t possibly know about the parking lot. Security cameras were in the security office. He was in his classroom all night. Besides, she didn’t think those cameras could see in the dark. Did they?
“He belongs to a parent, and Cara introduced us. She’s very proud of Oliver.”
“Oliver,” he muttered. “Did he sense you?”
“I…don’t think so. He was nice, and he was clearly uncomfortable with the way Cara was going on about him. But he was nice.”
Nice. What a bland way to describe a fellow witch, a registered witch, and one that worked to register others, at that.
One who had let her go.
For the first time her mind latched onto that.
What the heck? He’d let her go? He’d wrenched her admission and her element from her and…let her go? Why?
“Phoebe?” he said sharply, and she realized he’d spoken to her.
She looked up at Dad. “I’m sorry. I was trying not to get sick.” The lie rolled easily from her tongue. She was far too good at it.
“I said go get the stick,” he said heavily.
“No!” she whimpered. “I didn’t tell him anything. I swear.”
“It’s not a matter of telling. And you know it. It’s a matter of keeping you under control. And if your hands hurt, you can’t do anything.”
“And I didn’t do anything,” she yelled. “I didn’t do a damn thing! I won’t…”
The napkin holder and shakers jiggled on the table, her energy swirling from her like a dirt dervish picking up sand, strands of her loose hair whipped around her face.
Dad’s mouth went flat. “Go get the stick, or I’ll get it.”
She knew what that meant. If he had to get it, she’d get double.
Phoebe rose and dashed into the living room, shaking hand snatching up the flat wooden ruler. At least it used to be a ruler. The printed lines and metal band for straight drawing had long ago been lost to usage.
Lots of usage.
She hurried back to the kitchen. Dad had dropped his messenger bag onto the floor by the door, rolled his sleeves back and sat down—was chewing a bite as she returned.
“Sit,” he ordered.
Phoebe obeyed, taking her usual place.
Dad pushed her loaded plate aside. He motioned to her hands.
She clenched them in her lap. “Please, Dad. I can’t do this. I didn’t use magic at…”
“Shut up!” he snapped. “You know better than to say it in this household, and you know better than to let one of them approach you.”
“How could I know one would show up? I swear, he didn’t notice me!”
“Hands!”
They shook violently as she lifted them to the table, still clenched.
“Palms up, Phoebe.”
“No. This isn’t fair,” she gritted out, fear and anger warring.
“It’s necessary. Do you want to be taken away? I can’t be a Handler, Phoebe. I can’t do it. And you won’t like what they do to your kind. Your kind use hands to work their sin. Now open your hands.”
Phoebe uncurled her fingers and flattened the backs of her hands on the table.
The whistle of the stick preceded the burning agony in her palms. Then her fingers. Each palm and each set of fingers received five slaps.
The instant he stepped back, Phoebe leaped up, dashed for the bathroom and was violently sick into the toilet.
Well. She hadn’t lied about being ill after all.