…..CHAPTER 11…..
Phoebe’s face throbbed. When she shifted her hand to touch her face, wanting to feel the damage, her hand spiked fiery pain when she moved it. She was somewhere strange, but the smells and sounds told her she was in a hospital.
Opening her eyes to see where she was, her eyes wouldn’t focus right away. Whimpering with the pain, she tried to look at her hands.
“Phoebe?” a soft voice mumbled, familiar but still strange to her.
She turned her head to the left, and finally her eyes cooperated. Oliver lay in a hospital bed, rolled to his side, facing her, the closed room door beyond his bed. He looked pale, exhausted, and frankly depressed. Glancing around, she saw she was right. Hospital room with bland scenic pictures, warm peach paint, medical equipment beeping, rails on the beds.
“Are you alright?” he asked, voice rough with sleep. And maybe emotion.
Phoebe turned back and blinked at him, trying to remember how she’d ended up here.
No, how they had ended up here. Her gaze zeroed in on his hand where an IV was strapped to the back. A thick pad of bandages wrapped securely around his lower outer thigh near his left knee, with some sort of brace holding his knee in place. A thinner bandage hid most of his right forearm.
Phoebe stared helplessly at him, searching for answers she was suddenly afraid of.
Dad’s fist flashed from memory and she cried out, fear, pain in her cheek, then again on her lip, and she fell, hand cut with glass. Magic and flying debris and water, the soil from her beloved plants leaping into the air. And heat. She’d been so hot. Afraid she’d roast inside her own skin.
“Phoebe!” Oliver called.
And then he was there, hands cupping her face, making her look at him. Pain creased his face and he hissed a little as he tried to shift to reach her better.
She was crying; hysterical weeping came to her from a savage distance.
Somewhere the rage remained, lurking inside, ready to act.
“Phoebe,” he whispered, thumbs gently caressing her cheeks. “Come on, Phoebe. It’s alright. I’m here, I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
“Dad…” Her voice broke before she could say more.
His eyes tightened. “What do you remember?” he murmured.
She searched his green-eyed gaze, hoping against hope… “D-d-dad tried to punish me,” she whispered. “But this was so much worse.”
“I know, sweetheart. I know. Believe me,” his voice broke too. He swallowed, eyes flashing dark memory. “I know.”
And he did. She saw that he did. Anger, pain, fear were there and they echoed her own.
“Dad,” she whispered. “Where is he?”
Oliver looked down, then away.
“No,” she cried. “I didn’t mean to! Dad!”
Oliver let her go, turned to sit and swung his legs up onto the bed, grimacing in pain, and then he was holding her, warm comfort, gentle touches, soft words. She didn’t hear them, only sensed his worry and offered support.
It was so—alien.
No one had offered her this since she was small.
She went to sleep whimpering her grief and guilt.
“Jesus, Oliver, your ass is hangin’ out!”
Phoebe woke blearily as warm arms let her go.
It was hours later, if the sunlight on the wall was any indication. She turned her head to see Oliver’s Handler as he arrived with a bag, another man even taller than him—oh yeah, Cara’s two Dads, Oscar Dale and Tracy Carson—who promptly plugged a laptop into the nearest outlet.
Oliver sat up slowly, lowering his legs to the floor. He made a sharp hiss of pain, then stood and hopped over to his own bed, one hand on the rolling IV stand. Both men promptly rushed to help him so he only took one step on that bad leg of his.
Phoebe blinked at that bare butt between the folds of the hospital gown and looked away. She caught a glimpse of amusement from the Handler as he smiled at her embarrassment.
From the corner of her eye she watched them help him back to bed.
They loved him. She was certain of it. Like two brothers hovering over a clumsy little brother, ready to beat the bad guy that hurt their sibling…but also ready to razz the crap out of him.
And then they did exactly that.
Oliver sighed and took it. “I’m too tired to fight back, guys. Really? Kick me when I’m down?”
The big man snorted. “Down, my ass. You could knock us flat while half-asleep.”
The Handler gave Oliver a searching glance, then turned to her. “Witch Phoebe,” he acknowleded gently.
She sucked in a shaking breath, staring at the man in shock.
Oh God. Just like Dad warned.
It had begun.
She was now officially a witch. And he’d done that on purpose. She saw the sadness in his eyes, knew he’d taken the full sting of it from her by being the first, someone she knew, someone that cared, if only academically.
She was a witch, and he was preparing her. No family name needed.
She was a witch, property of the government until adopted. If she got adopted.
She couldn’t walk the streets alone. She wasn’t allowed to court or marry or have children.
Phoebe closed her eyes. She hadn’t been able to do a lot of that anyway, had she? Dad hadn’t let her date. He’d kept her close, warned her over and over again against using her magic outside the house, and even inside, he didn’t want to see it. Wouldn’t even let them say it, that evil word called magic.
Not that she could use it at all. She had no control over it.
Oliver’s Handler—Oscar? Oh hell. Oscar Dale, Director of the FBW&R. The man waved at his husband, who turned and closed the door and put his back to it, watching with sympathy in his gaze.
Director Dale turned hard eyes on Oliver. “Alright, Oliver. Now that you’re awake, we’ve got some things to work out.”
The younger man nodded. “Yes, Oscar,” he murmured obediently.
Mr. Carson tsked and shook his head. “Oscar,” he chided. “You’re worrying Oliver.”
“He should be.” Oscar’s voice was grim. “This is uncharted territory. There’re so few Primes that there’s literally no protocol for training one.” He grimaced. “Unless we want to borrow the playbook from Russia, China, Saudi Arabia, Canada or Brazil.”
Phoebe frowned at the term prime, the word tickling her memory but failing to come forward.
He turned to look at her. “Miss?”
“Yes?”
“How long have you had magic?”
Swallowing hard, she made herself answer the question, made herself face what she’d spent her life denying. “Since I was eight.”
“And why did your father keep you from the registry?”
She looked away. “Because… His dad’s brother was a witch. Great-uncle Collin. He was used in the war. Died in the war, and Dad was afraid I’d be used, too.”
He sighed. “Well, he wasn’t wrong, but not really right, either. Especially not if he resorted to abuse to enforce your silence. I wish you’d come to us. We would’ve protected you.”
Phoebe scowled at him. “Protected me? From what? Losing my rights as a human being? Oh, that’s right. I’m not human, am I? One could hardly tell, since no one even knew I was a witch until…” She faltered on her tirade, lost. Whenever today was. She looked around, sense of time completely lost.
“Last night.”
“Last night, then. Tell me, Director. Now that the world knows I’m a witch, will I be able to continue in my teaching job?”
“If you have a Handler willing to supervise you, yes.”
“Supervise? I’ve been a teaching assistant for three years. The only supervision I’ve ever needed was to make sure I got the next project ready for the kiddos, and even then, I wasn’t supervised,” she spat.
“True. And did you live in fear of discovery?”
“Of course I did.”
“And now? Now everyone will know you’re a witch. Now you can have your magic. Oliver assures me that magic is as essential as breathing to a witch. Oops. No pun intended,” he muttered.
Phoebe blinked, then snorted. “Breathing,” she muttered back.
Oliver chuckled.
“Let’s not get into an argument. The point of this is that you’re no longer hiding who you are. You can have your magic. Yes, you’ll have a Handler. But as much as the public sees us as keeping witches under control, they have no notion that our real purpose is to protect the witch under our wing. Oliver is my witch. And I’d die to protect him.”
Oliver’s eyes went wide, and his jaw dropped. Phoebe looked at the man at the door and saw an echoed sentiment there.
Oscar shot his witch a look. “Keep that to yourself, Oliver. It’s not to be bandied about. If the public knew we were guarding witches, they’d have a fit.”
“But… What about abuses? Not all Handlers take care of us,” Oliver growled.
“We know. Let me correct a little. We at the FBW&R specifically, are guardians of witches. And you know as well as I do that it doesn’t go unpunished when we find an abuse. There’s a reason the sentences for witch abuse are so damn harsh. Now, Phoebe, we’ve got some questions. What’s your native element?”
She looked away. “Air.”
“And your preferred Aspect?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never used my magic enough to find out.”
“How long have you been able to use other Elements?”
Phoebe turned her face back, frowning. “What?”
“The other Elements? Oliver assures me that you used all of them last night.”
Phoebe shook her head. “That’s not possible. No witch can do that.”
They stared back at her.
“Can they?” she whispered, eyes widening, shrinking into herself. She barely controlled Air. She couldn’t possibly use other…
Wait. Prime. That’s what she’d missed. A Prime used all the elements.
“Yes, they can. Parallel is the title for a witch who can use two to three elements. This is a rare skill, but not unheard of. There are less than a hundred registered in the whole state right now, perhaps a thousand country-wide. Prime is a witch that can use all four elements. To say that they’re rare is an understatement. Last I heard, there are a handful worldwide. And now we have two of them. Right here. And new.”
Phoebe stared back. “Two?”
Oscar looked at Oliver, who fidgeted and looked down at his hands. When Oliver looked up at her, he was resigned and weary.
Phoebe shook her head at Oliver. “I don’t remember much.”
His eyes filled with sympathy. “I’m not surprised. You were in shock. And not just physically. Your magic was out of control, and losing control takes a toll on the body, mind, and your ability to work your magic, which makes it harder…sort of a nightmare scenario of the snowball effect.”
She looked down at her bandaged hands, lifted them, stared at them blankly. “I can’t believe…”
It was quiet for a long moment as she put them down and turned to the window. She wanted to be alone so she could cry in peace. But that wasn’t going to happen right now.
A soft sigh broke the quiet. “You’re a Prime, Phoebe,” Oliver said gently.
She looked up at him slowly, felt a tear slip. “That just makes it worse, doesn’t it?”
He looked away with a nod, mouth tight with unhappiness. “Yes. It does,” he said grimly, hand clenching on the rail of his bed. Then he hissed in pain and let it go, absently rubbing his bandaged arm.
She did that to him. And his leg…oh god…and Dad…
Phoebe shoved those thoughts away, focusing on what he’d said. Something about the way he said that… And he’d been the one to help her last night. The two separate pieces clicked into place. “You are, too.”
He nodded without looking at her.
“Are you going to teach me?”
Oliver looked to Oscar. “How do we proceed, sir?” This was clearly an official question.
How did they do that? Didn’t their clear love for each other interfere in their work? Wasn’t there some official rule that there was no fraternizing in the government, or something? But it wasn’t sexual. It was platonic.
No. It was familial. Which was just as bad.
The Director stared at his witch for a moment. “She’s not the only one in need of training.”
Oliver grimaced. “School? You know we can’t take either of us to the school with this. They won’t let us out. Besides, I’m a little old for that.”
Mr. Carson chuckled. “You’re never too old to learn, Oliver. You’re only twenty-five anyway. Plenty of people your age are in school. And look at me. I’m constantly upping my game at near forty. Lame excuse, little bro.”
Phoebe restrained a smile at the sour look on Oliver’s face. As a teacher’s assistant, she knew a daydreamer when she saw one. Sensitive, thoughtful, curious, and kind, Oliver would’ve ignored the bullies while still feeling the sting, and he would’ve had few friends…because he listened to the sound of a drum only he could hear.
“Phoebe, we’ll keep you in the loop as we decide how to proceed. I can keep you here for a week or two for medical observation without a hitch, because of what happened, but after that, I don’t know. We’ll try to figure out what to do before the doctor releases you. Are you alright with us trying to help you, or do you want us to leave you alone?”
Alone. Just seconds ago she’d wanted to be alone. And she was very used to being alone, though she’d always had Dad in her life. Now she had no one. Except Oliver. In a panic she looked to him, the only person in this world she halfway knew. Even Helen Grady was barely a friend, more of a boss, and a boss who wouldn’t be happy to find out her assistant was a witch that had hidden her magic for years. Helen’s prejudices were mild. But they were still prejudices.
Oliver knew. As she’d surmised, he was sensitive, and he didn’t hesitate to get back out of his bed and hobble over to her, quickly enough that by the time Director Dale jumped to help, he was already here. Oliver sat down and took her hand. “It’s alright. You’re not alone,” he murmured.
Both men looked startled, but she clenched his hand in hers with a desperation she couldn’t help. The unknown terrified her, Dad’s words echoing in her head, and the yawning cavern of guilt swamped her…
Grief drowned her weeping heart. Dad hadn’t always been so dark. Before she awoke to her magic, he’d been a wonderful father. She loved Dad. And now he was gone…
And it was all her fault.
And all his warnings and worries were coming true.
Overwhelmed, tears threatening, she nodded. “I’ll take all the help I can get,” she whispered, not trusting her wobbling voice right now.
Oliver’s hand tightened, his eyes searching hers. He tried to smile, but neither of them had anything to smile about, so it fell flat. When it did, Oliver opened his arms, and she fell against his shoulder. She didn’t know him well, but she had a feeling she was about to. And she did trust him. He’d been nothing but kind, firm, and concerned. From the start, Oliver had known who she was. He hadn’t immediately run to arrest her or out her as a witch.
Oliver had tried to help her find her way out, find her magic.
And she supposed he had, in a way. He’d been the catalyst for the arguments with Dad. Yet she didn’t blame Oliver for what had happened. She couldn’t. The…abuse…yes abuse… Her mind firmed around that thought. The abuse had been going on for over a decade. Long before Dad found her talking to Oliver.
So. Dad was gone. The ache of grief and guilt would only get worse, she knew that. But for now, she had to focus on dealing with her present. Her magic.
The magic she could feel writhing inside her, just waiting to be called.
Her magic, that she’d been ignoring for so long that that very writhing inside felt normal. She suspected it was not.
“I’ll teach you how to control your magic, Phoebe,” he murmured into her hair. “You’ll need some control, now that you’ve lost it. Holding it in the way your father insisted could only work for so long. It’s a miracle it lasted as long as it did. I’m inclined to think you have some form of natural regulation, for it to take so long to explode. Now that your magic is free, we’ll figure it out, Phoebe. Your magic is waiting for you.”
Phoebe shivered at that thought.
But it also felt right.
Her magic. And it was waiting for her to catch up.
Her future as a registered witch had begun.