..…CHAPTER 27…..
Phoebe smiled uncertainly. She had no clue what the niceties of this situation were. Was witch culture different? She had no idea.
Gwen’s Handler, Jesse, smiled at Phoebe. “Thank you for letting Gwen visit. I have to run an errand, and she can’t come with me on this one.”
“Of course.”
“Gwen, why don’t you show Phoebe around a little? The whole building, even the batteries. Why don’t you show her how to power them? It’ll be good practice for her.”
“Yes, Jesse,” she said softly.
Phoebe smiled uncertainly at Jesse, then he turned and left.
She’d been given a temporary apartment here in the House, as it was called. When the knock had come, she’d expected it to be Oliver or Oscar. She never had visitors. Finding the pair on the other side of the door had been a surprise. And not really a good one. She didn’t know them at all. She’d seen this girl around a few times, but they hadn’t actually met.
Staring at the girl for a moment, she found a shy, introverted young woman. If she was a full adult, Phoebe’d eat her shirt. “How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
Phoebe smiled gently. Called it. “I’m Phoebe. Nice to meet you. Where are you from?” There was a trace of an accent in her voice.
“Michigan.”
“Ah. How long have you been here?”
“Not long at all. I was put into the federal pool and Jesse picked me.” There was both dread and pride in her voice, and Phoebe understood it perfectly.
“Want to take that walk?”
“Sure,” she murmured, eyes flicking to her and away again.
It almost hurt, how shy Gwen was.
They made their way down to the first floor where Gwen showed her the lobby, administrative offices, and half a dozen conference rooms. The second floor was more of the same, but with fewer conference rooms, and more offices. Same for the fourth floor, with the addition of interview rooms, but the third floor was the hospital. The fifth floor was cells for criminal witches, and Gwen wouldn’t take her there, citing Phoebe’s safety. Phoebe didn’t argue.
The sixth floor was a massive gym/exercise haven.
The time with Gwen was pleasant. Restful, actually. Gwen didn’t have much to say for herself, but she answered questions when asked. And she did ask a few of her own, about Phoebe’s life, her family, which Phoebe didn’t answer outside of a simple, “I’d rather not talk about that.”
They ended up back in Phoebe’s apartment, chatting as they made lunch together. Gwen was clearly a well-trained witch. And Phoebe didn’t mean magic. Gwen had been taught from birth that she owed her magic and her life to the people, that she was property, that she had no say.
Gwen was the ultimate result of the government’s design. Placid, obedient, magic in control for their use, not Gwen’s.
It made Phoebe’s heart ache for the poor girl.
The heavy pounding on her door interrupted their clean-up, making both of them start violently.
When she opened her door, Oscar stood impatiently waiting, face haggard. “Good, both of you come with me,” he ordered, and it was clearly a command.
She met Gwen’s mystified gaze with her own, and they scurried after the Director.
They hurried into Oliver’s rather stark apartment. And then into his bedroom.
He lay on his bed, unconscious.
Phoebe stared in shock at Oliver’s pale face as Tracy eased a light blanker over him. She sensed Gwen’s distress beside her, but ignored her to look up at Oscar.
“What happened?” Gwen whispered, aghast.
Phoebe caught movement in the corner of the room. A tall, rail-thin man stood squished out of the way but clearly unwilling to leave, hands clenching and unclenching, gaze locked on Oliver in anguish.
Who was this stranger…
Ohhh. He looked so like Oliver… He had to be a relative.
“This is Paxton Bennett. He and Oliver bumped into each other at the store. It was emotionally difficult for Oliver, so I knocked him out. Can you ladies watch over him while we talk to Mr. Bennett?”
“Of course.”
Phoebe noted that both men were here. With Oliver. “Where are Cara and Micah?”
Tracy smiled wanly at her. “Randall and Melinda are showing them around the gym.”
Then the three men left the bedroom, Oscar drawing the door nearly closed. Phoebe pulled the chair close to Oliver where he lay on his side facing her. Phoebe hesitated, then took his hand.
“He’s so pale,” Gwen murmured. She put one hand on Oliver’s head, brushing hair from his temple. Her gaze went unfocused for a moment before she shook her head. “He needs water. He’s dehydrated.”
The voices from Oliver’s living room filtered in to them. “Alright, we need to figure out how to move forward,” Oscar said, firm and in control.
“I want to talk to him, I want to adopt him,” Mr. Bennett said so quickly his words almost tripped over themselves, voice harsh with emotion, but not anger.
With grief.
“I’m afraid you can’t. We adopted Oliver eight years ago.”
The man was quiet, but Phoebe heard the sound of pacing, a shaky exhale. “Is he safe? The Kiplings can’t get to him any more?”
“No. He’s safe with us. You must understand, Oliver is part of our family. He’s loved and he’s safe,” Tracy said quietly.
Phoebe sighed softly. Oliver was one of the lucky ones. She looked up at Gwen, who met her gaze, eyes sad.
“Thank you,” the man said softly. “For taking care of my brother. God. I knew something happened. I knew Mom did something. Something she shouldn’t.” Anger wove through his tone, words practically spat with loathing.
“Your mother…” Oscar began. “What she did was illegal. And there’s no statute of limitations on child trafficking, even for witch children. Especially for witch children.”
“Yeah. Too bad Mom died of a drug overdose less than three months later. She got money. Now I know where.” Bitter words. “She managed to use most of it up, too, so Grammy didn’t have help in raising us.”
The silence was painful. Phoebe looked back down at Oliver. His eyes were open and he met her gaze, expressionless.
For the first time, she realized that that very expressionlessness was his shield; she’d seen it many times. Not to keep others out, but to keep himself in.
Well, probably to keep everyone out, too. Everyone but those he considered family.
Phoebe squeezed his hand gently and he answered with one of his own before letting her go. He closed his eyes, then sat up, scrubbing his face. Then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers run through his hair, head bent. They ended up clasped behind his neck, fingers twined.
Gwen put one hand on his shoulder.
“If Oliver is willing, will you permit me to see him?”
“We’re not controlling. If he wants to see you, we’ll make it happen,” Tracy said.
There was a frustrated sigh and a rueful laugh. “Hell. I’m sorry. I’m Paxton Bennett. I’m his older brother, and our younger sister is Savannah. I adopted her from the pool when she became available. Because I’m family, I had precedence.”
Oliver’s head came up, eyes suddenly wild.
“She’s a witch then?” Oscar’s voice.
“Yeah.”
“You couldn’t adopt Oliver then anyway,” Oscar said, voice gentle. “Law states one witch per Handler.”
The curse was too soft to hear, but the tone was undeniable.
“My name is Oscar Dale, by the way. This is my husband Tracy Carson.”
“Wait. Oscar Dale…Director of the FBW&R?” Paxton sounded surprised.
“Yes.”
There was a moment of quiet, then he laughed. “Wow. Oli…I-I mean Oliver, really moved up in the world. That’s…that’s amazing.” There was gratitude in that voice. And maybe a bit of pride.
Phoebe smiled when Oliver looked flustered. She couldn’t see much because his face was tilted down, but she saw enough.
“Savannah is a level seven, tri-skilled, Earth witch. She’s strong enough I had to fight the government for her. What’s Oli? I mean Oliver.”
“He’s a level nine. Same element. He’s quint-skilled, though, so Oliver’s got a lot of power.”
“Oh… Uh…” He sounded shocked, before a sigh followed. “That explains a lot. Dad was hitting him. Oliver acted in self-defense, I want that made clear. He used a lot of magic that night. It was…pretty brutal.”
Oliver flinched.
“You were there? It’s a case that was never solved to the FBW&R’s satisfaction, much less legally. It was Oliver’s testimony alone.”
“I’m not sure I should tell you,” Paxton sounded wary now.
Oscar sighed in frustration. “Oliver’s told us—off the record—enough to know that it was self-defense. On the record, no arrests were made at the time because no one knew who’d done it. The wife said she didn’t know who did it, she wouldn’t allow our people to talk to the elder child…you. And the younger child was too small to question at all even if the wife let us. No mention was made of a middle child, and it wasn’t until after Oliver showed up during his escape from the catchment and he gave his name and age, that he was even known to exist. The agents had no reason to know he did. After Oliver was brought to the Academy and registered, after he was settled enough to be able to tell us what happened, it was reopened and settled as best the investigators of the time could manage. He was pretty traumatized. Thank god lawmakers had their heads on straight when they decided that a witch’s awakening is often out of their control, so their actions are dismissed. That’s the one thing witch’s are given leeway in.” Oscar stopped talking, and another frustrated sigh followed. “But now, Mr. Bennett… Now that I’ve learned details, I’ll have to file a report, and Oliver will have to be questioned again. But with you as a witness, he’ll be fine. I highly recommend that you give testimony. It’s not like in a court. It’d be on paper, and someone from the FBW&R that’s not involved with Oliver would take over any questioning.”
Phoebe met Oliver’s gaze, but his slid away in shame.
So this was how he knew what she was going through. He’d literally done the same thing she had—killed a parent in self-defense.
Paxton’s voice was faint. “Do we have to do that? Can we just let this go? I don’t want to risk him going to prison for this. He’s been through enough.”
The quiet stretched.
“Dammit. Please don’t do this to him,” Paxton whispered, could barely be heard.
“Remember, he’s already been exonerated due to trauma and age. He’ll be safe. As long as you give testimony to his defense. But I have to report what I know, which will reopen the case for clarification. If it ever gets out there—and all secrets come out—then my hiding of it will get us all in trouble. Me, Tracy, our kids, you, Oliver, even Gwen and Phoebe in there, who no doubt have heard everything.”
Phoebe gave a guilty start.
Tracy chuckled. A second later the door pushed open and Tracy stood framed by light. “Come on out you three. Oliver, how are you feeling?”
“I have a headache from hell,” he rasped, voice wrecked.
Gwen stirred. “You need to drink, Oliver. I’ll get you some water and medicine,” she said, her soft voice firm.
Oliver nodded, then rose and shuffled from his bedroom. Phoebe frowned to herself. Oliver never shuffled. He moved with firm confidence, not this hurting, child-like movement. She followed, pulled a chair out from the tiny dining table and pointed firmly at it.
Oscar was leaning against the kitchen bar next to the stools there, tense with his clear concern. Paxton stood near the door, and he watched Oliver with hurt and worry.
Oliver, for his part, sat down in the chair, one arm on the table, the other hand in his lap as he stared into the distance. “I’m sorry, everyone. I…lost my head.”
“Forget it,” Paxton said firmly at the same time Oscar said, “it’s understandable.”
“Mom’s dead?” he asked numbly.
“Yeah. Overdosed.”
Oliver grimaced. “Not surprised. It would’ve happened eventually.”
“I know. You said you got away, but they caught you anyway?”
“Yeah.” Oliver swallowed hard, visibly shaken. “I was on the streets for two months or so. They caught me, put me in the catchment. Mom must have recognized my power, because she got lots of money. That envelope was fucking packed with hundreds.”
“God, Oli. How long were you there?”
“I don’t know. A few years.”
“But how did you get out?”
Oliver shrugged. “Catching powerful child witches was the Kipling way. I woke up one day to the sound of them arriving with a new kid, a boy that was terrified and fighting them tooth and nail. He was a fire witch, and he wasn’t bashful…” Oliver trailed off. His eyes widened, he jumped up, then swung to Oscar. “Oh shit,” he breathed. “The boy…that was the fire witch that broke those other witches out during our raid. He’d done it before, Oscar, at a different catchment, in another time. Because he got me and others out of there along with him before they could put him in a cell. We got separated right away. God, Oscar. I recognize him. And…I think I know who he is.”
Oscar had straightened away from the counter, eyes sharp.
“He’s a Kipling. I’m sure of it. He looks just like them, just like the rest of the family. That’s why he seemed so familiar.”
Oscar frowned. “But which one? They’re all accounted… Wait. Gregory Kipling lost three children, two boys and a girl. All of them quite young, and all at the same time. They put it out that they’d died of some childhood illness. They claimed they didn’t immunize them or some shit.”
Oliver was shaking his head. Phoebe could see that he was doing mental calculations. “Isaiah, I think? It has to be him. The age is perfect. He’s too young to be the eldest son.”
Phoebe gulped. “They were going to put their youngest son in the catchment?” she asked, horrified.
Oliver’s mouth twisted with bitter anger. “Yes. The Kiplings would never let a resource like that go. If the boy became a witch, they’d take advantage of it.”
Tracy was shaking his head, not in denial, but in disbelief. “But why? They could’ve used his power in a normal way, adopted him, kept him as a household witch, continued to consider him part of the family. And what happened to the other two?” Tracy asked.
Oliver bit his lip, mind clearly on fire with possibilities. “I don’t know,” he finally admitted.
“Wasn’t there a fire, too?” Paxton asked, brows drawing together. “I remember. It was big news, because it was a reopened hotel that the Kiplings had renovated, and it was down the street from us. I was in my teens or pre-teens, but even I remember all those emergency vehicles. They’d had a grand reopening only weeks before, and that hotel burned to the ground.”
“I remember that,” Tracy said, nodding, glanced at Oliver. “Where’s your laptop?”
Oliver strode two steps to the kitchen and picked up his messenger bag hiding behind Oscar’s legs under the bar top. He snagged it and returned to his chair, began a search immediately.
Paxton was shaking his head. “Kiplings are so loyal it’s terrifying. What if he accidentally hurt…” he swallowed hard, shooting Oliver an apologetic look, “or killed, his older siblings. That would be reason enough to drop him in the catchment.”
Oliver nodded, eyes narrowed. “Yeah. Kipling once punished a cousin for something small and stupid. I could see him doing that.”
Phoebe watched Paxton watching his brother. There was worry there. And growing amusement and pride.
Oliver made a frustrated sound even as he searched whatever information he was reading, clicking occasionally. “We need to talk to the fire witch, Oscar. I’m sure he’s a Kipling. Are there any pictures of the family from that time period?” His question was rhetorical as he continued his search. It was quiet for a long moment before Oliver made an approving noise. “Yeah. It’s him,” he breathed.
Phoebe wasn’t the only one to crowd behind him. On the screen was a young family. A dark-haired man, blonde woman, a blonde-haired older boy, a dark-haired girl, and a younger dark-haired boy, perhaps four or five years old. The woman was clearly pregnant with a fourth.
Oliver pointed to the brunette boy. “That’s him. This picture was taken when he was five years old, but he was, god maybe six or seven, when he and his siblings supposedly died. But I know this is that fire witch. Not Isaiah, though. Isaac Kipling.”
Gwen started, staring at the computer, face looking pale. “Oh! He said his name was Ike. Isn’t that a nickname for Isaac?”
“Yep,” Oscar said. He grimaced. “Getting witches away from his family would be a personal thing for him.”
“I can relate,” Oliver growled.
Phoebe put her hand on his shoulder in comfort.
“Alright, how do we find him?” Tracy asked, parking himself next to Oliver, peering over his shoulder at the screen.
Oliver sighed and scrubbed his face. “We already suspect he works for that computer shop. Let’s track this guy down and have a chat.”
Tracy made a humming sound. “Go to their website real quick.”
Oliver typed, then the big man bent over, scanning over his shoulder. Phoebe looked at Oscar, who watched the pair with a smile.
“Go to ‘about us.’”
Oliver clicked on something, then sighed in satisfaction. “God damn, Trac. Great job. He’s listed under the staff.” He looked up and met Oscar’s gaze. “He’s living under an alias. Isaac Kidd.”
Tracy straightened, business-like. “Alright, we’ll deal with that later. Let’s leave Oliver and Paxton alone for awhile. Miss Phoebe, how would you like some coffee?”
Phoebe nodded. “That sounds great. Gwen?”
Her little shadow perked up. “Yes, please. If I may?”
“Of course you may, miss Gwen. Come on ladies. I know the perfect coffee shop, all travel themed, warm, and relaxed. It’s tucked into a nice little neighborhood near our house. Oscar dear, you coming?”
Oscar grinned. “Duh.”
“Sounds good,” Phoebe murmured as she stood. She looked at Mr. Bennett, then at Oliver, who was awkwardly trying to ignore everyone. Phoebe put her hand on his shoulder again, couldn’t help it. She was worried about him. His reaction had been powerful. She wished she could give him a hug. Then she shrugged. She’d already determined to live her life without the damn rules imposed on witches. So she bent and hugged Oliver, kissed his cheek, and breathed him in. Oliver’s surprise made her smile. “I hope today will lead to good things,” she whispered in his ear.
Oliver met her gaze and smiled tiredly. “Thanks.”
As they left Oliver’s apartment, she glanced back long enough to see Paxton crouched beside Oliver, one hand on his knee, the other clutching one of Oliver’s hands.
And on Oliver’s face was grief and hurt.
And hope.