“We call to the stand, Witch Agent Oliver, adopted witch of Nicolas Dale, Director of the Federal Bureau of Witchcraft and Registration, registry number 13417709511-M-04.”
Oliver rose from his seat and slipped easily past the two men seated to his left, stepping onto the central isle. His gaze flit past Braden Kipling, then shot back as the old man’s expression dawned on him. Oliver didn’t let himself pause, but he noted the smug amusement.
Shit.
A thorough scan of the courtroom’s gallery had shown that Deputy AG Brinski and General were not in the place. Nor were they seated with or nearby Kipling and his defenders. Where had they gone? It could not be a coincidence, them showing up after making noises about a potential mishandling of this case.
Oliver shook those thoughts from his head to focus. This wasn’t his first rodeo. He’d testified many times over the last eight, nearly nine years.
Yet—this was so very different.
This was the case he’d striven for, for years. This was the case where he would put behind bars the monsters that locked up and drained children for their magic. That used money, influence, and witches to gain power and yet more money and influence. That didn’t care who they hurt to get those things.
Oliver arrived at the stand and faced the crowd of public witnesses, media with their cameras, artists, and microphones, his fellows of the FBW&R, and Braden Kipling.
He waited for the bailiff to bring the bible. Oliver wasn’t sure it applied any more, since so many weren’t Christian or even religious at all. Oliver’s beliefs tended to the general sense of spirituality, but he wasn’t even certain of that. Eyeing the bible as he put his hand on it and lifted the other, he met the bailiff’s gaze without flinching and gave his oath of truth.
Giving that oath just made the sense of anticipation of what was coming still sharper.
He couldn’t wait to watch Kipling sentenced. He’d waited nearly two decades to see this fucker punished.
The prosecutor began her questions, and Oliver made sure to keep his answers clear, concise, and honest. He wasn’t going to risk them accusing him of breaking the law in collecting evidence or anything else. He’d done everything by the book, and the world would know it.
“Last question, Witch Oliver. During the arrest of Braden Kipling you provided him with the following documents, put directly into his hands by Director Dale, and he did not read them.” She rattled off the multitude of arrest and search warrants that Oliver had held until Nico was ready to deliver them.
He listened to the list. It was accurate. He remembered holding the bundle in his hand, amazed and gratified at the number of ways they were going to bust his crimes wide open. “Yes. Those are the documents I held for my Handler during the raid of the compound. Upon request, I handed them to Director Dale, and he put them directly into Braden Kipling’s hands. Mr. Kipling then handed them over to his son, Gregory Kipling without looking at them once. I had no role in acquiring them or in filing the requests, per statute 6068.29 of the Witch-Born Binding Act auxiliary recusal of 1978.”
She smiled, satisfaction flashing in her eyes at his answer. “Thank you for your time and service, Witch Oliver.” She turned smartly and strode to the prosecutor’s desk.
“Your witness, Mr. Mills,” the judge said, looking up from his notes. Or his doodles, for all Oliver knew.
The defense attorney stood with a studied, even bored look on his face as he approached. “Please state your name and registration number, witch.”
Oliver gritted his teeth at the lack of respect. He almost refused simply for the principle of the thing, but this wasn’t the time to act up. He obeyed, citing the information.
Mills nodded thoughtfully. “Do you know Mr. Braden Kipling?”
“No.”
“I repeat, do you know Mr. Kipling?” he demanded.
Oliver scowled. “No. I’ve never officially met the man.”
“Hmmm…are you sure?” he purred.
Oliver stared back, puzzled by this question.
“Come now, witch.”
Ms. Harquist stiffened in her chair. “Your Honor,” she protested. “That’s the second time the defense has refused the proper title of a servant of the law and used it to denigrate him instead.”
“Defense, you will address a public servant with his full title.”
Mr. Mills affected a surprised look. “I apologize to the court.”
Yeah, that’s my name and my title, asshole. Use it. He noticed the man didn’t apologize to him.
“Do I need to repeat the question, witch? Oh, excuse me.”
Oliver made sure his tone was calm but clear. “Do you need another reminder of my title?”
In the audience, he saw Nico face-palm. Randall smirked even as he put a consoling hand on Nico’s shoulder.
Mr. Mills smiled pleasantly. “Are you refusing to answer questions?”
“Are you refusing my rightful title? According to the Witch-born Binding Act, upon their magical awakening, witches are stripped of their birthed surname in exchange for the title of Witch, and their first name becomes part of said title, from the amendment of 1948, paragraph two, clause seven. I ask again, are you refusing my rightful title?” Oliver allowed a hint of steel into his voice with the question.
“Please let the court note that this witness is combative and Defense would request your Honor to direct the witness to answer.”
The man scowled. “Perhaps if you’d quit prodding and antagonizing the witness, he’d be more forthcoming. I don’t recall this witness having issues while answering questions from the Prosecution, and this witness has accurately stated the law. This court directs the jury to disregard this set-up against this witness. Straighten it up, Defense.”
Mr. Mills smiled as if he found it cute that the judge was scolding him. “Witch Oliver, please answer my initial request.”
Oliver obeyed, kept his voice even, making sure to enunciate everything clearly. “No, Mr. Mills. I’ve seen Kipling. Multiple times. But I’ve neither been introduced to, nor spoken to Mr. Kipling.”
“Thank you. I understand that you’re the adopted witch of the Director, am I correct?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you been an agent with the FBW&R?”
“Almost nine years.”
“And you’re how old?”
“I’ll be twenty-six in less than a month.”
“I see. You were how old when you joined?”
“Seventeen.”
“A minor.”
“No. You see, our lawmakers decided that witches don’t get to have childhoods, so I was ready for my job by the time I was sixteen. The same lawmakers determined that a minimum age of seventeen would get us witches out in the workforce faster, but still appease the bleeding hearts that worried about pesky child labor laws.”
Mr. Mills’ mouth tightened. Rustling from the audience made Oliver wish he’d kept his mouth shut.
Sometimes he couldn’t help himself.
Movement in the crowd at the back snared his attention, and his gaze immediately caught on the face of Isaac underneath a baseball cap—who was grinning ear-to-ear at him. Oliver flicked his glance back to Mr. Mills, who looked up at the judge. “Are you sure you don’t want to classify him as combative, your Honor?”
“Noted. The witness will answer questions without hyperbole. If you do that again, Witch Oliver, I will note to the court that you’re combative.”
“Yes, your Honor.” He shot a look at Nico, who was glaring at him fit to scorch him in his chair. Oh boy.
Point made. Nico’s point, not his.
“You were the legal age for witches to join the workforce?”
“Correct.”
“Doesn’t it require a certain amount of extra training? I know law enforcement of any kind goes through their own version of boot camp, so to speak.”
Oliver frowned. Where was this going? “I’d already gone through it at the Academy. Our training is very broad for the specific purpose of going into any area needed. Once I was fostered to Nico, then Special Agent, I was trained in the law and in procedures.”
“I see. So, you joined the FBW&R?”
“You make it sound like a choice.” Oliver kicked himself mentally for yet another snarky-ass response. “I was chosen by my Handler, who I’m lucky enough to have bonded with and he adopted me, legally taking possession of me.”
“How old were you when your magic awoke?”
Oliver stared back. What the fuck? This whole line of question made no sense. “Seven. Why are you asking questions about me? I’m not on trial.”
He smiled, hand lazily rising to scratch at his neck, conveniently covering his clip-on microphone. “Perhaps you’re not as smart as I was led to believe. That took longer than I thought it would,” he whispered.
Oliver chilled.
His hand lowered, his voice clear and strong…and hard. “Because this line of questioning is very much about you, Witch Oliver. Hold out your left hand.”
Oliver flinched, heard his own breath pick up speed. His brain seized—as it always did when his brain encountered the topic of his imprisonment. He shook his head quickly, wrapping his hand around the scars, looking for Nico. His Handler had jumped up, face white. Oliver had no idea what was happening, but he knew Nico had seen where this was going.
“You are required to tell the truth and nothing but the truth. You are also required, as a witch and communal property, to obey an order given by an officer of the court. Present your wrist. Now,” he said coldly.
Oliver didn’t take his eyes off of Nico.
His Handler’s eyes had gone dark, and he leaned over the railing to hiss something to the prosecutor.
Ms. Harquist stood up. “Objection, your Honor! The witness is not on trial here…”
Mr. Mills’ voice cut sharply across hers—staccato words. “This witness’s actions are directly linked to the case, your Honor. If the court will indulge the defense, it won’t take but a moment to explain. But this visible symbol is necessary for the understanding of every person in this room right now.”
The judge stared at the man, frowning. He shot a look at Oliver, and Oliver had to hide his shiver. Something on his face must have made up the man’s mind. “I’ll allow this. But you’d better make this fast, and you’d better be factual, Defense. I don’t approve of drama in my courtroom, Mr. Mills. Facts only.”
“I’ll give everyone all the facts they can stomach, your Honor,” he said, turning his cold gaze on Oliver.
Oliver turned his face warily toward the defense attorney.
“Hold out your wrist.”
Oliver looked at Nico again, needing guidance in this because his brain just wouldn’t focus. His friend’s mouth tightened, but he gave a curt nod, then sat down, eyes full of dismay that he tried to hide, but couldn’t.
What was going on? Why was he suddenly in trouble? He’d done nothing wrong!
“Witch? Are you disobeying a direct order from the people?” He jerked his gaze back to the man, saw the bizarre combination of amusement and fury in his eyes. “Not going to demand your title now, Witch?” he whispered again.
He heard the soft laugh of Kipling in his chair…
Oliver’s long suppressed rage ignited, and for a moment it was all he could do to wrestle it back into the neat little box he kept it in. It wasn’t acceptable to let it loose. Not to the people, not to the law. Not to himself.
Not to Nico.
Oliver looked down, his hand slowly releasing his wrist. Stared at the physical symbol of his torment. Two years. Two years of pain, terror, humiliation, exhaustion of his magic. Two years of seclusion and no one to talk to except the fuckers that had abused him. He was lucky he’d been a boy. The girl witches had been raped. But he’d experienced plenty of violence, too.
“Witch!”
Oliver jerked and looked sharply up at him.
“Your left hand,” he said coldly.
The rage inside wanted to lash out. Wanted so badly to make him pay for the insult, for the way he was clearly going to ruin Oliver’s life right now. Something had been planned and put into play, and Oliver knew they wouldn’t have played it out if it wasn’t going to work. Oliver didn’t know how, but he knew something was coming.
But he couldn’t lash out. He couldn’t do anything. And everyone in this room knew it.
His rage drained away, left him bereft of any support. The past washed in to fill the void. He tried to hold it at bay.
It was too late. It was coming. And he wasn’t sure if it was what was happening in the courtroom or his past that would drown him.
Oliver held out his hand, gaze dropping to his feet as it all came rushing back, overwhelming everything. He knew it for what it was and was powerless to stop the dissociation.
Embarrassment, helplessness, loneliness, frustration, fear…rage. His mind sank into the past, into memory… He had to grit his teeth. He had to hold perfectly still or he’d… He didn’t know what he’d do.
It was just like the damn grocery store all over again. His mind dropped without his permission straight into the past.
“I thought you said you got the kinks worked out,” Kipling snarled.
“Yes, sir, we did! This isn’t the bug in the system. This is a backwash of power, so to speak.”
Oliver groaned, pushing against the power, weakly fumbling with the thick metal around his wrist. Dimly he heard the other witches screaming in pain. The only reason he wasn’t was because he was pushing back, trying to keep the energy from hitting him.
For long minutes, he managed.
But he was so weak. He couldn’t hold it back for long.
He became aware of a presence and opened his eyes. Kipling stood outside his cage, eyes simmering with rage. He whirled back. “Fix this! I don’t want my best source damaged!”
Source? Yes, Oliver was his best source. He was too strong, and had been from the start. His dial was always set at eleven. Never more, never less.
And then Oliver lost the battle. He felt it happening, felt his ability to stave off the backwash of energy wane. Immediately the energy shot through his body and he screamed, clutching his wrist where fire scorched him, writhing on his thin mattress.
“Stop the drain!” someone yelled.
Oliver lost consciousness, but not before he saw the raw burns on his wrist, nose assaulted by the smell of his own burning flesh.
His arm was seized, his sleeve unbuttoned and shoved back, dragging his numb mind back to the present. Lifting Oliver’s wrist high, fingers digging painfully into the middle of his forearm, the defense attorney pointed to the marks on each side of the green cuff. “As you can see here, this witch,”—no need for a name, might as well be a cat or dog or sheep—“has scar tissue. Now, I’m aware, and you are too, that witches are used every single day in the collection of energy to run our electrical Grid. To keep our society functioning. Legal catchments that collect magical energy and translate it into electricity. I’m not gonna deny, illegal catchments exist. No one can. It’s a fact. Now, Mr. Kipling has in the past possessed a catchment for collecting energy. Again, no one can deny this, and Mr. Kipling has agreed to admit to having one. But it was legal. As well, his witches were well cared for, as well or better than the legal catchment thralls. These scars…they were caused by a sudden and unavoidable reflux in a catchment system. This witch knew Mr. Kipling, was once owned by Mr. Kipling. He was a thrall for the defendant. This witch is out for revenge and used his position and authority to get it.”
The courtroom erupted.
Oliver stayed very still. He didn’t trust himself not to run. The rage he’d felt before had snuffed like a candle as he saw what the defense was doing at last.
The attorney resumed before the observers had fully calmed down. “As undoubtedly painful as these gruesome scars were to receive, this witch has used his authority as an agent of the FBW&R to entrap and exact revenge on Mr. Kipling. Every single paper this witch has signed, every piece of evidence he’s logged, every raid, every stakeout, every arrest, is a conflict of interest,” his words were nearly shouted in triumph over the noise of the courtroom.
Oliver wanted to be sick.
They’d worked so fucking hard to put that evil fuck right there in that chair, facing life in prison…
But they’d failed.
He had failed.
His very existence had brought this court case to an end before it could really begin.
Oliver didn’t pay attention to anything else, his mind checking out of reality, sucked into the past and into a self-loathing he thought he’d outgrown or at least healed from. He dimly knew his wrist was on display again. Vaguely he heard the facts of his capture after the catchment and placement into Academy. Heard also the sound of his father’s name. Rehashing Dad’s violent death, no doubt. Heard his disobediences both in Academy and the FBW&R listed like a litany of crimes.
Yeah, he really was on trial. The court of public opinion…
Someone said to step down. He had no idea who said it, or who they were talking to. Voices buzzed around him.
“Oliver?” A soft voice.
That voice could bring him out, and it did. He blinked, saw a dark hand appear to lift his chin. He numbly met Nico’s worried gaze. His mouth tightened with further concern. “Come on, little brother,” he whispered.
Oliver let his Handler pull him to his feet and he shuffled along behind him. They left the courtroom. Someone put their hand on his shoulder even as Nico guided him.
“He’s in shock,” Nico said softly.
Randall, right by his elbow, said something he didn’t catch.
“No. Remember what Dr. Bevens said all those years ago? Dissociation. They confronted his worst nightmares in there. Just give me a few minutes to talk to him. But be ready. He’s gonna be livid when he snaps out of this shit.”
No. Not really. It was his own damn fault.
His fault a killer, witch abuser, and criminal mob boss, had gotten off scot-free.