…..CHAPTER 17…..
November 2nd
“Oliver?”
Fixing his expression into the stink-eye, he looked up at his Handler. “No,” he growled.
Oscar lifted one eyebrow. “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”
“I don’t have to hear it, I can tell by your tone. No. I’m not going in to the school today.”
Oscar’s mouth turned smug. “See? You did need to hear me.”
Oliver stared at him for a moment. His half-joking disappeared as he glared, restraining a shudder. “No. Not that either.”
Oscar sighed. “The city called. Twelve witches are out sick.”
“No.”
“I’m sorry Oliver. The catchment needs you. Melinda, Val, and Gwen are going, too.”
Oliver swallowed the bile that tried to rise. Illegal catchments weren’t the only catchments. Thankfully, legal ones weren’t anything like them. More like a workstation, the witch spent mind-numbing hours per day drawing magic from the world around them and pouring it into the energy grid.
Or rather, the crystals that ran the grid. Witches weren’t supposed to tell anyone, not even their Handlers, if they weren’t city, state, or federal workers. No one was supposed to know that crystals were the basis of the grid. For all the numbers of people who did know about the crystals, it certainly was a well-kept secret.
“I know you don’t want to, and I know why, little brother. I wouldn’t ask it if it wasn’t needed. Come on, Oliver. The city needs you.”
Oliver gritted his teeth and obeyed.
When Oscar pulled up to the front door of the Denver Gridhouse, Oliver refused to look at it or get out.
Oscar didn’t say anything, instead pulling from the front to find a parking spot instead. He put the car in park, then waited.
“I can’t…” His voice stopped working.
Oscar drew a slow breath. Finally, his voice warm with comfort and affection, Oscar spoke. “You can. You’ve been here before, you’ve served the grid several times over the years. I think you’re having issues today because of how close you are to getting what you need.”
Oliver couldn’t argue that.
“Justice,” Oscar murmured.
Oliver gulped and nodded. He looked down at his left wrist where his cuff hid only some of the scarring. For once he didn’t wring it unconsciously, he just stared at the silver burn scars built up over two years of pain, fear, and exhaustion. Because of his strength, they’d set the machine high, pulling power from him every second of every day. He wondered the whole time if he would be the next witch carried out wrapped in a tarp, limp and lifeless, worn down to nothing until his heart stopped.
He’d only realized years later that his strength was the very reason they hadn’t pulled from him until he died. He provided so much energy that they couldn’t afford to kill him. The magical energy they sucked from him was as much as three to four other witches combined. He hadn’t understood that then. It had taken a few months at the Academy to learn that fact for himself, and learn the hard way to keep his power level to himself. Already marked as a quint, it was sheer luck that had put Oliver early into the class that taught about Kanorado’s high security Seclusion Center.
As if using the terminology of seclusion rather than detention changed the reality of that building.
“Take a deep breath, lift your chin, and get it done.”
Oliver closed his eyes and obeyed, drawing a slow deep breath. “See you tonight,” he muttered, opening the car door.
“Hey.”
Oliver glanced back.
“You’re safe, little brother.”
Oliver gave him a half-hearted smile. “I know.”
At the entrance, he handed over his badge and showed his cuff to the scowling security guard. “Where’s your Handler?”
“He’s already left.”
“He needs to check you in next time, witch.”
“I’m not a little boy. I think I can get from the car to the door without him holding my hand,” he growled.
The man looked taken aback. “It’s the law,” he protested.
Oliver bit back his retort. The man was only doing his job, trying to abide by what he thought was right. “Yes, sir.”
He looked somewhat molified. “Next time…”
“I’ll ask my Handler to log me in.”
“Thank you. Down the right-hand hall, to the end, make a left.”
“I’ve been here before.”
He didn’t say anything else as he handed Oliver his badge back. In the locker room he was given a lock and the hidden combo and told to change. Once he was in the thin white suit—his clothes, badge, and phone locked away—he slipped the white booties on his bare feet and followed the other witches out the backside of the room, opposite the entrance, and into the holding room. He glanced at Gwen, Melinda, and Val where they’d come from the women’s locker room, gave them a nod.
It wasn’t quite time yet. Five minutes later, the manager, also in the white suit and booties, opened the door and waved them into the containment room, his silver cuff indicating he was a Handler.
Oliver stared around the big area. As Oscar had said, several dozen work spaces were empty, too many witches down with this damn disease.
Oliver glanced around the room, noting that not a damn thing had changed over the years. Machines lined the walls with switches, digital readouts, manual dials and levers. It was a mechanical nightmare for Oliver. He wasn’t inclined that way, to machines and how they worked. Give him the internet anytime.
In the middle of the room stood a wide round tower surrounded by thirty workstations with chairs facing toward a chamber just above their heads and inset against the tower itself. A metal walkway surrounded them, over the heads of the witches powering their crystal. About five feet tall, each chamber contained a massive crystal the size of an older child. They lay at a forty-five degree angle against a padded felt ‘bed.’ Set into a metal bracket on each end, lines from the work station attached to the bottom bracket brought energy to the crystal, which magnified the witch’s input power. Larger, thicker lines from the other end carried the amplified energy from the crystal to the grid. The chambers had a tempered glass window for quick visual checks, and they gleamed with the energy the witches instilled in them, glowing with the color of the witch’s native power as it surged from the witch and into the crystal.
This was what a legal catchment looked like. The witches here worked to put energy into the grid, received hourly breaks during the day, a full hour lunch, and worked no more than six hours total per day. Their breaks and workdays followed a staggered fashion to keep the grid from going down when a lot of witches stopped channeling or before the next crew could come on line. The logistics of it boggled Oliver’s mind.
Most importantly, these witches were not literal slaves to the system. They weren’t tied to their workstation, they put their hands to the funnel while they worked.
No tether attached to their cuff to drain them dry or burn them when the system backed up.
The main problem with Oliver working here was his own crazy level of power. He had to restrain himself or he’d give himself away. He didn’t ever want anyone to know he wasn’t a level 9.
The manager escorted them one-by-one to a station where he had the current witch disengage. Oliver observed Melinda’s seamless switch onto the grid, smiling. She was a pro. Gwen fumbled hers a bit, but caught herself quickly. Val was also an easy switch out, but she powered herself up slowly.
“Ready?”
Oliver nodded and followed the man to a station. The old woman sitting there disengaged when the manager’s hand gently touched her shoulder, and Oliver slid onto her seat with a smile at her weary face. She gave a nod of thanks, clearly too tired to speak.
Oliver shifted the seat into a more upright position, placed his hands on the metal bar that acted as a ‘funnel’ for his energy. Immediately he felt the pull of the crystal and ramped his power up inside himself. Oliver caught a glimpse through the grate over his head the shift from yellow residual magic from the woman before him as it shifted to his green.
Oliver stared at the department head, waiting for him to give the go ahead. He in turn was watching his dials, and when he turned, he gave Oliver a nod.
The only good thing about working the grid was that the grid managers and staff treated witches with respect. Usually. They understood what witches were doing, probably better than anyone but an actual witch.
Oliver eased his magic into the grid before pumping up his outgoing levels, the energy inside flowing smoothly from him and into the metal handlebar in his hands. Pulling from the world around himself, he dropped it straight into the crystal, rather than taking it in.
Monotonous as it was, Oliver wasn’t surprised to find himself in a deep meditation when he felt a hand on his shoulder bringing him back. He eased off the power, then cut it and stood.
“Break time, Oliver,” he said, motioning to the door on the other side of the women’s locker room.
Oliver went into the break room just long enough to drink some water and down an energy drink, walk the dedicated lap around the outside edge of the room a few times, then he was back onto the grid.
At lunchtime, Oliver, Gwen, Val, and Melinda were replaced with fresh witches, and the four of them left the catchment room, heading straight for the cafeteria. Once there, they received a few curious looks. They got trays, had them filled with their high energy picks, and sat together. Oliver sat next to a young woman, across from an older man.
“Is that creamed spinach?” the stranger asked, eyeing his tray. “I didn’t see that.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll have to go back.” The she paused, staring down at his wrist.
Oliver quickly moved it down into his lap.
“No, you don’t have to… It’s just like mine,” she said sadly, holding out her wrist for him to see.
His scars were worse than hers, but he saw them clearly around her yellow cuff anyway. His heart rate kicked up. “You were a thrall, too?”
She flinched, her chin dropping to her chest as she stilled. Then she gave a tiny nod and started eating.
Oliver held out his left hand to her and she froze again, staring hard at his wrist, before looking up at him. Wide brown eyes met his. “So…you were in a catchment.”
“Yeah. Braden Kipling held me for two years in a warehouse located near the tracks.”
She started. “Me too. Wait. Some little kid broke a bunch of us out…”
Oliver lifted an eyebrow. “Yep. I was one of the last ones to get away. I was scooped up by the FBW&R as I came out of the sewer system.”
She nodded. “Wow. Small world, huh. I was one of the first ones out, and I lived for half-a-year with some friends before I was caught and taken to Academy. I was shipped to Grand Junction, though, because I’m only level three and they didn’t have room for me here in Denver because the main campus is for stronger witches.”
“Hey. You’re not only a level three. You can do shit no one else can. Right?”
She stared at him for a moment, then shrugged. “I suppose so.”
“I know so,” he said firmly and took a bite.
She gave a tiny, sad smile. She turned back to her meal. “My Handler adopted me, and I have a job with the city as a grid witch. How about you?”
“I’m just here to help out. I’m an agent with the FBW&R.”
Her eyes went wide. “You’re an agent, and you’re here?”
He nodded, puzzled by her behavior.
“You shouldn’t be here. You should be busting bad witches and stuff.”
He grinned and gave a little laugh. “That is my job. But the grid needed me today.” He sobered. “Do you remember much, from your time in the catchment?”
She turned back to her tray, clearly unwilling to remember that time. He couldn’t blame her. But maybe she might remember or know something?
“What’s your name?”
“Sandra.”
“I’m Oliver.”
Her mouth turned up in a sad sort of smile—that seemed her default smile setting—but she didn’t look at him, focusing on her meal. “Nice to meet you.”
Oliver wanted to ask her more. The tense set of her shoulders told him she’d shut down if he did.
Fuck. I wonder if… He realized with a queasy roll of his stomach that she’d probably been one of those far more abused than he had been. He wasn’t hungry anymore. I’m gonna have to have Melinda or Val talk to her. She won’t talk to me.
At the end of the day, Oliver met Oscar in the lobby. Lottie, Jesse, and Randall were there, too, each one checking over their witch with concerned eyes. Oliver smiled tiredly at them. They’d gotten so very lucky, the four of them. In fact, every witch in the Bureau was lucky.
Oscar was raking him with a hard stare before he relaxed. “No backups, I assume?”
“No, thankfully.”
Oscar relaxed more. “Let’s get you home and a good meal in you. Tracy’s making shredded beef and cheddar wraps tonight.”
Oliver grinned. “That sounds amazing.”
In the car, though, Oliver let his amusement and gratitude slide away as he told Oscar about his lunchtime meeting.
Oscar’s gaze sharpened as he listened, then he gave a nod. “I’ll send Randall and Melinda tomorrow.”
Oliver let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you. I don’t think she’d talk to me.”
Oscar gave a terse nod. “Understood,” he said, voice soft and mournful.
Oliver stared out the window as they made their way home. Not the House. After today’s reminder of his past, he needed his family.
He needed his home. He had zero doubt that Oscar knew this and didn’t bother to ask.
The minute he walked in the door, Cara leaped into his arms, peppering his face with kisses, grinning for all she was worth, and Micah launched himself onto Oliver’s back, climbing him like a tree, arms around his neck. Oliver laughed and buried his face in their hair to kiss them.
Yeah. His family. They might not be blood related, but they were his family just the same.