…..CHAPTER 35…..
December 24th
Back at the Handler’s cabin in the mountains early Saturday morning—like, just as the sun was rising, early—they had taken their places in a meadow behind the house, and Isaac was enjoying the pure beauty of the place. When he could. They’d dived into training the moment they arrived.
Right now, Isaac watched Oliver with a touch of jealousy as he performed his Fire magic almost flawlessly.
Granted, Oliver was moving slowly in learning it. Phoebe, too, was taking her time with it. He supposed he could understand it. It wasn’t their native like it was his. He had no problem taking his magic to the extreme for demonstrations for them.
Much as he hated to admit it—to himself and no one else—Oliver was right. Federal training had its benefits. The man grasped concepts and theories instantly, and implemented them nearly as fast. Which was helpful for Fire magic…once he had the essentials, because he wasn’t quite there yet. But fast enough to account for that jealousy.
Formal schooling had given Oliver an edge.
It wasn’t worth the cost, though. Losing his freedom wasn’t an option for Isaac, in order to gain some information he could gain elsewhere.
Why was Oliver fighting for witch freedom? He was a Tame. And he seemed content to be one. He fucking adored that Handler of his. He was proud of his skills learned under duress in a school controlled by the government. Oliver seemed pro-government. On the surface. But he wasn’t. Not completely anyway. The man wanted witches to be free. Yet he followed the rules, caught his fellow witches and put them into that damn school. Isaac didn’t understand it. The contradictions…
He stared at the Tame One as he explained to Phoebe something she wasn’t getting. God he was annoying. Oliver never boasted his background as a fed. He didn’t have to. It would be far less infuriating if the man did. He knew Oliver wanted to.
Midway through their practice session, Oscar called them to eat, and Isaac was grateful the man had stopped and bought actual food instead of those stupid saltines they’d had to make do with last time. A rotisserie chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, Texas toast slathered with a thick layer of garlic butter—god, the only way to eat bread—and whole milk. Wow. What a spread!
Phoebe was grinning at him. He liked her. She was quiet, but she had a sense of humor at least. Unlike so-serious Oliver.
“You two are so much alike it’s not even funny,” she said.
Isaac blinked and focused on her.
She was looking between him and Oliver.
“What? No way!”
Oscar chuckled when Oliver choked on his food. “She nailed it.”
Isaac gave her a hard look. “We are nothing alike. He’s a gutter rat, a fed, a Tame One, and has no sense of humor.”
Oscar snorted. “The only thing you mentioned that applies to personality comparison is the last part. And Oliver has a sense of humor. He laughs. He just doesn’t joke. Please,” he said, voice pained. “Please don’t ever ask him to crack a joke. He literally can’t.”
“So true it hurts,” Oliver muttered.
Isaac ignored the by-play. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask.”
“Shoot,” Oscar said, then took a bite of bread.
“How is the case against Braden and Gregory?”
Oliver paused, Oscar nodded as if he’d been expecting that question, and Phoebe looked puzzled.
Oliver glanced at her. “They’re his grandfather and father, and we arrested them…”
Isaac stiffened. “No. They’re. Not.”
Oliver met his gaze, then those green eyes softened with understanding. “Sorry, man.” He turned back to Phoebe. “The Kiplings are in jail waiting for trial. We were lucky enough that they didn’t get a chance at bail because they’re rich enough to be a flight-risk.”
Oscar and Oliver exchanged a long look. Finally Oscar turned to him. “You deserve to know.”
Isaac tensed. “Know what?”
Oliver’s mouth tightened in anger as Oscar spoke. “The AG is looking into the arrest of the Kipling family.”
Isaac’s temper, never all that far from the surface, ignited. “What the fuck? Did you forget to get arrest warrants or some shit?”
Oliver glared. “No. We did everything right.”
“Oliver is correct, Isaac. We weren’t the only agency, and we worked endlessly with all of them to do this right. I’m sure the AG is just making certain everything measures up.”
Isaac jumped to his feet and stalked from the house, slamming the door in fury.
The meadow where they’d been practicing was a mess, but Oliver had assured him that he would fix it before they left. Isaac tramped over the ground that he’d rumpled in the exploration of his Earth magic.
Turning his mind to magic was one of the few things that could calm him down. Holding out his hand, he played with a ball of fire, careful not to burn himself. Fiction about magic-users being immune to fire was a myth in real life. He would love to be immune.
If he were, he would’ve long ago gone into his family’s home at night and burned each and every one of them to char.
Just like Marcus and Ariana had been.
Isaac swallowed hard, trying not to get sick at the memory of burned flesh, the screams of his siblings, the terror and pain of magic he couldn’t control…
“Isaac?”
He whipped around. Phoebe waited perhaps twenty feet away, eyes anxious.
“I just need a minute.”
“Of course. But Oscar got a call, and we have to head back to Denver.”
“Fine by me.”
They arrived back at Dillon’s shop, and Oscar left all of them there with a note from Oscar to Dillon, giving him permission to Handle Oliver and Isaac to Handle Phoebe. “You know, seeing as how we aren’t registered witches, and to the world at large, we’re not witches at all.” Dillon’s voice held a truckload of sarcasm.
Isaac sourly ignored it as Oscar left in a rush.
Oliver took his computer to the break room and started working on it, Phoebe stayed with Dillon to talk Air. Isaac followed the Tame, since the store was dead, with no customer in sight.
“What are you doing?” he asked, parking himself across from Oliver.
The Tame shrugged. “Just looking at our case against Kipling. I swear to god we did everything right.”
Isaac snorted. “He’s a genius at slipping through trouble. Been doing it since he was a kid.”
Oliver shrugged. “I wish we had more witnesses. A few of them have refused to testify out of fear. We have plenty, but I believe in overkill.”
Isaac snorted.
“I’d love to get my hands on the anonymous tipster.”
Isaac kept his smirk to himself. “Why?”
“Because he or she clearly saw things, knows things, because they turned over a ton of information. If we had their testimony…”
Isaac rose and went to the sink, snatched up a rag. “Anonymous is anonymous for a reason. Forget about that and focus on the problem at hand. Someone is trying to get him off scot-free,” he growled, wringing the wet cloth over the sink with a vicious twist. He turned and wiped the table down, scrubbing harder than he really needed to.
Oliver lifted his computer so the young man could clean. “Who?”
Isaac shrugged. “How would I know? How would you explain the AG coming to bat for that old fart? He has some rich asshole that he works with. Although…I don’t know about that, either. With or for, who knows? But Kipling has someone in his corner, and I’m willing to bet money that this person has the ear of the AG.”
“Any idea at all?”
“No. I was too young to understand most of what they did. I saw a few rich assholes, heard adult talk that went right over my head. Christ, I was seven when…”
Oliver waited.
“My magic woke when I was seven.”
“Mine too. Pretty fuckin’ young. Average age is eleven to thirteen.” Oliver turned his gaze elsewhere, lost in thought…or memory.
“My brother and sister died that night.”
Oliver’s voice was strained and low. “I killed my dad.”
Isaac turned back to the sink. Memory of the night his magic awoke screamed for attention in his head.
Silence swallowed the break room. When Oliver drew a breath, he leaned forward to start working again. “I’m sorry about that. My dad was beating the shit out of me, so it was self-defense. Same with Phoebe. We get it.”
Isaac shrugged at his assumptions and rinsed out the rag. He wasn’t going to tell this asshole his past. He couldn’t claim that defense in the death of his siblings.
“Hey, if I list off names, do you think you’ll recognize them?”
“Go for it.”
Isaac was surprised to find he recognized over half of the names Oliver said. The Tame One smiled grimly. “Awesome. We’re on the right track, then.”
“Whoever he has in his corner, pulling in favors, pulling strings, whatever, Kipling probably has a back-and-forth arrangement. It’s all about power. And the basis of power is…”
“Money.”
“Yup. Follow the money. No matter how odd the channel or old the trail. Look at every body you can.”
Oliver met his gaze. “Will do.”