…..CHAPTER 9…..
The tires of Oscar’s car squealed as they stopped. He knew Jesse and Gwen were right behind them, along with several other Bureau vehicles with agents.
He leaped from the car before Oscar had even stopped.
Magic raged. And he could feel her. Phoebe’s magic was completely out of control. He sensed the terror behind it, but there was also shock. It was all there in the energy to be read.
As he raced for the front door where police officers stood, the door partially pulled to, he sensed something else, vaguely familiar, but ignored it because it wasn’t near.
Oscar yelled at Jesse and Gwen to contain the scene.
Oliver pulled his coat aside just long enough to flash his badge as he rushed through the frame, the door swinging hard enough to bump into a coat rack, knocking it over with a muffled thump. At the back of the generous living room, a wide open frame separated the living room from a dining room, with the tiles of a kitchen on the left in the background. In one sweep he noted the somewhat shabby living area with sparse furniture and quite old family pictures. A stairway led to a second floor along the wall on the right.
Phoebe sat on the floor in front of a coffee table. Her blue-gray eyes glistened, utterly without thought, so deeply in shock he went cold. Lying on the floor halfway between Phoebe and the door was her father, a folded belt in his loose grip.
And flying through the air, shattered pieces of dishes danced almost gracefully. The air of the house was so overwhelmingly unstable he sensed it trying to come from his very lungs.
Oh god.
Oliver rushed to the man on the floor. His lips were blue, eyes wide in fear, but blank in death. Just in case, he checked for a pulse that wasn’t there. He looked at the young woman, at a loss as to how to reach her.
“Phoebe,” he called softly.
The shards in the air jolted, then spun faster.
“Oliver,” Oscar whispered, voice strained.
Shit. He rose and whirled on his Handler. “Stay out! She’s pulling air from everywhere!”
Oscar nodded and backed to the doorway, but stayed within the frame.
Oliver took a moment to verify what his nightmare had shown him—his accidental Dimensional sight—had shown him. Fuck…he’d used Air in his sleep… So not good…
The air held more than just broken glass. Water and dirt whirled, too. Not because the air carried them, but because her magic gripped each of them with the essence of it’s own Element inside her. From Phoebe he sensed heat, her face flushed with it.
“Phoebe, please let me help you.”
Nothing.
“Oliver—how are you not being sucked dry of air?” Oscar asked quietly, voice strained.
Oh crap. Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap…
Not just in his sleep, then. He was blocking Phoebe without realizing it…
Oliver swallowed hard and looked guiltily over his shoulder at his friend—the brother of his heart.
Oscar’s brown eyes stared back in stunned comprehension.
In hurt.
In fear.
Oliver shook his head. “Not now,” he whispered.
Oscar nodded once, eyes firming with resolve.
He turned back to Phoebe. “Keep everyone out, Oscar.”
Behind him, he heard the door shut. He didn’t have to look to know Oscar had stayed inside.
Dammit. Oscar was risking himself…
God. She’s powerful. If I fuck this up, she’ll never trust us, and she might just kill us both. And Oscar, too.
“Goddammit, Oscar. Get out of here!” he hissed.
“No. Stop wasting time.” Words low and soft so she wouldn’t be startled.
Oliver stared at her, glanced at the spinning pottery, dirt, water. She had to be having trouble with Fire. It wasn’t manifesting in any way outside of her body, only inside.
Dammit. His mind whirled like those shards, water, and dirt. Veering crazily between need to help Phoebe and knowing that his best friend had found out…
Oliver gave himself an inner shake of disgust and made his mind behave.
Oscar knew now. There wasn’t anything he could do about it…soooo…he was actually better off in dealing with her because of it.
He drew a deep breath, forcing the air into his lungs against her will as her instincts and shocked mind continued to manipulate the magic. With all the things floating in the air, one might wonder at her native power. The occasional flash of the other three colors confirmed her status, but her hands gleamed golden most of the time. Her native was Air.
But with the other elements involved, she was more. Because Phoebe was using all the elements right now—even Fire.
She was a Prime.
Like him.
God. Oscar’s gonna kill me.
He gave his head a sharp rattle in order shake loose his personal problems. Oliver watched her for a moment, chewing on his lip. He had to try to reach her before he did anything. Taking slow steps, he half-crouched until he was only a few feet from where she sat by the corner of the coffee table. He put one knee to the floor, the other up where he rested one hand. “Phoebe, it’s me, Oliver. Can you try to focus on me?”
Her eyes continued to stare into nothing.
No, not nothing. Oliver followed her line of sight.
She was staring at her father. Oliver turned back to her, took in the split lip. The broken flesh on her cheek. The bleeding hands. One of which looked bad. He needed to get her under control so they could make sure she didn’t lose too much blood. “Phoebe.” He let his voice hold more volume and strength.
Nothing. Damn.
Oliver drew another deep breath, braced himself, and lifted his hands. Drawing on the magic all around, Oliver pulled hard first. Then he shot his arms out to the side, whipped his power around her, cutting her off from the magic.
Instantly the broken dishes fell.
And then her eyes widened, filling with pure terror.
Phoebe didn’t need access to the magic in the world. This woman, like him, held a reservoir of magic inside her.
Wind screamed through the room, tearing pictures from the walls, adding more glass to the danger, snatching up the bits of glass. The air in his lungs left him in a rush. He fought her power, sucked in a lungful and turned to Oscar.
He was pale, hand at his throat. Oliver shot his hand out toward him with a sharp circling gesture, shoving a bubble of air around him, saw him suck in a gasping breath. He whirled back to Phoebe, his magic slashing through hers, putting a barrier between her and the air. Again the glass fell.
And then Oliver jumped up, snatched her up from the floor. At first he was going to shake her, try to wake her from this endless maze of shock.
Instead he pulled her to him, held her close. “It’s alright, Phoebe. I’m here. You’re safe. You’re safe.”
Her body shook. All sense of her magic disappeared. He drew back from her, lifted a hand to push hair from her face, but she flinched, pupils still blown wide, unable to focus. With tender fingers he tucked that honey-blonde hair behind an ear. “You’re safe. No one is going to hurt you. Not him. Not me. No one. I won’t let them. Okay?”
She didn’t focus on him. But her slight nod was something. Oliver gently pulled her close again. And slowly, slowly her forehead settled on his shoulder.
And then she started to cry. He held her, gently rocking side-to-side, murmuring soft reassurance.
“Dad,” she choked.
“Don’t worry about that,” he whispered.
“Don’t…don’t…don’t…” Phoebe grated, fists clenching on his shirt. Each iteration of that word became harder and sharper.
And then the rage came.
Oliver was expecting it. He’d seen it too clearly to know it wasn’t far away.
Phoebe’s head tipped back from his shoulder, face a mask. Her shriek of fury rocked the air, the bits and pieces jiggled despite his grip on the magic.
For one moment, her magic shifted out of his grip.
Then the broken crockery rose from the floor almost like they’d been transported, it was so fast.
And every jagged point aimed at him.
Two shards got through before his own air power condensed into a barrier, one slashing his right forearm, the other his left outer leg above the knee, straight through his slacks, embedding so deep he couldn’t see the piece.
Oscar gave a sharp cry of warning. Those pieces turned toward him and flew. Oliver threw his hand out to cover Oscar, a flashing shield that blocked shards from striking him.
But it wasn’t enough. Oliver let her go and whirled, hands flashing his green power and he clenched his hands.
Every shard exploded into powder and fell to the floor in a curtain as the particles kept traveling.
He whipped back around to Phoebe. Her rage wasn’t done. The glass and crockery might be dust, but she had other means. And though they weren’t her enemy, her assaulted mind didn’t know that.
Oliver’s thoughts flit over possible ways to deal with her. He knew there weren’t many. But the best way would be to let her wear herself out. Keep the damage to himself and Oscar to a minimum while letting her rage vent.
Instinct told him that was the right way to go. She had to let this out. She needed this.
But he had to protect her from herself, too.
Oliver lost track of how many times he suppressed her magic to prevent damage to the three of them. The thing about magic was that while it was the same energy for every witch, every witch used the energy differently, even—to an extent—among those of the same Element. But it was impossible for any witch to suppress the power of witches of other Elements. Thus Oscar’s shock just after they arrived, because Oliver didn’t have that problem. He had all the Elements.
At last Phoebe’s rage waned, exhaustion winning the battle for him. Mostly because of his training, he was able to outlast her, because he’d worked a shitload of magic today. Any other day, he could’ve done more than just let her vent.
Although, letting her vent had thankfully been the right course. He was certain of it when she leaned into him, let the magic go, soft whimpers coming from her.
When Phoebe had calmed enough, he let her go, but stayed close to help. When he shifted, his leg shrieked in pain, but he ignored it.
Phoebe shook violently, her world torn apart, and for a moment he ached for her. There was no coming back from this. Not in any sense. Not her family. Not her career. Not her home.
Not her life.
“Oliver? Can we get her out of here?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do we need to sedate her?”
Oliver hesitated. Giving her something to make her sleep would be a kindness. But he couldn’t bring himself to make her helpless after all the times that she’d been helpless in her life already.
“No. Can you bring a blanket? Now that the heat has worn off, now that her magic is waning, she’s going to be in shock.”
“Be right back.”
Oliver nodded, waiting.
“Dad,” she whispered.
Stepping up to her, intentionally blocking her view of the body, he took her face between her hands, made her look up at him. Glazed eyes didn’t see him, but he had to try. “Not now, sweetheart. Don’t think about that. You need to take care of yourself, right now. You’ve suffered enough. Give yourself permission to love yourself, and care for yourself.”
Her glassy eyes didn’t tell him if she’d heard or not.
The door opened again. “Catch.”
Oliver turned just enough to accept the tossed blanket. It half unfolded on the way to him, but he caught it. Turning, he gave it a light shake to open it fully, gently draped it around her shoulders. “Are you ready to go? We’re going to take you to get checked out by the doctor. You’re injured, and you need to sleep.”
She didn’t respond. When his hand wrapped around her arm and he pulled, she moved woodenly with him toward the door. He made sure he was between her and her dead father. The few remaining glass fragments broke and crunched against the hardwood flooring beneath their shoes. His leg was on fire, but again, he hardly noticed, intent on Phoebe and the continuing danger she presented to herself and everyone else.
Oliver put his arm across her shoulders as they came out of the house, drew her head to his shoulder, shielding her from the flash of lights and the noise as best he could.
Yep. It was that damn Wild fire witch. He felt him watching.
Following the sense of his presence, Oliver turned his face enough to see down the street. One hundred feet to his left, on the other side of the street, near the privacy fence of a corner house, a large shrub sprawled.
Between the bush and the fence, hidden in shadow, he saw a smaller, huddled form. With effort, because he wasn’t good with the Element, Oliver bent his fire magic, toward that man. Would he try to say anything?
Nothing smart, it would seem. “What the fuck are you looking at?” came a puzzled, annoyed-as-hell whisper.
Oliver barely restrained a glare. “I could same the same, asshole.”
He almost laughed when the man literally fell over.
Phoebe shivered in his arms.
“Shhh…it’s alright. I was talking to someone else, Phoebe,” he said gently, hugging her shoulders a little tighter.
Oscar led the way to Jesse’s government car, which actually had a barrier between front and back, unlike Oscar’s.
Gwen opened the door for her, and Oliver help Phoebe sit down in the backseat, buckled her seatbelt for her and stepped back. Little Gwen thumped the car door closed.
When he turned, his Handler was staring at him. Hard. “Get in,” Oscar growled.
Oliver, Gwen, and Jesse all froze. He looked sharply at Oscar, stared at his grim eyes.
His breathing was suddenly much too fast, and fear beat at his brain.
“Get in, Oliver,” Oscar said, voice stern.
“Why?” he breathed.
Oscar’s mouth tightened. “You know why,” he hissed, eyes hard. “Get the fuck in the car.”
Oliver looked away, down, anything to not see that look in his friend’s eyes. He glanced at the woman inside, then wordlessly hobbled around the car, got in beside her and stared at his feet on the floorboard the whole damn way back to Headquarters, Gwen and Jesse silent the entire time.
Once parked, Oscar came to open his door, and he stepped out, waited helplessly.
“Go get her. She’s familiar with you. Let’s get her to the medical floor,” Oscar said, voice even now, face impassive.
Oliver obeyed. They left her with the doctors and nurses there, then Oscar took his arm in hand and led him back to the elevators, silent but clearly furious. Dimly he sensed Gwen and Melinda, their Handlers, several others from the night crew, watching until they’d left the floor. He was so very clearly in trouble, the only thing that would show it more would be handcuffs. For the first time, he truly felt that Oscar was his Handler. He felt… He felt like a criminal.
They went back outside to the parking lot, toward their car, although Oscar went even further, to the bank of grass between the lot and the street.
Oliver, shivering inside and lightheaded, obeyed Oscar’s guiding hand without a murmur of protest.
“Sit down,” he snapped, pointing at the curb. And it was a command.
Oliver obeyed, didn’t have the strength to argue, to fight… He couldn’t seem to raise his gaze higher than the ground.
“Alright, Oliver,” Oscar said, as he stood before him. “Look at me.”
Oliver drew in a shaking breath and lifted his gaze to Oscar’s. There was anger in his brown eyes. But there was hurt, too.
And fear.
“Explain this to me.”
He looked back at the asphalt, hands clenched in his lap, shoulders hunched. He’d never felt this way before, this sense of…disappointment. Of shame.
Keeping his magic to himself had always been an act of rebellion.
And an act of survival.
Dammit. I should’ve told Oscar… But at first secrecy had been necessary—he didn’t know the man yet.
Nathaniel had warned him from the start. Tell Oscar.
But Oliver hadn’t known Oscar yet. Didn’t trust him, didn’t trust anyone, not even a fellow witch. Not even Nathaniel. Not yet. It would be over a year after he was placed with Oscar before he trusted the man enough to tell him the secret he’d kept hidden since the night his magic awoke. And by then…
“You’re a goddamn Parallel, Oliver?” he whispered. Oscar clearly didn’t want this getting out.
And then once he knew Oscar for the kind man he was, for the adopted family—he’d been afraid to tell Oscar—because of exactly what was happening.
His Handler no longer trusted him.
Oscar’s voice jolted him back to the present. “Talk to me. Are you or are you not a Parallel, a witch that can cast spells of Elements beyond their native?”
Oliver gave a tiny nod.
“Earth is your native magic. But you controlled Air tonight. You were doing some crazy shit in that house, and so was that girl. Can you do Water and Fire, too? Because it sure as shit looked like it.”
Oliver hesitated, saw from his peripheral that Oscar’s eyes tightened.
The truth.
He nodded. “Yes, sir,” he breathed.
“Fuck me,” Oscar whispered. He scrubbed his face then dropped bonelessly onto the hood of his sedan with a metallic thump. He even pitched forward, hands braced on his knees. “Prime. Why didn’t you tell me, dammit? Don’t you trust me?” The hurt in Oscar’s voice made him flinch.
Oliver reluctantly looked up at him. “At first I didn’t know you.”
Oscar stared back, then grimaced. “Point taken. Damn. Next you’ll be telling me you’re a ten.”
He flinched again and Oscar’s eyes widened. He straightened like someone had pulled him up with strings. “Christ. Do not tell me you’re a fucking unicorn.”
Oliver scowled at the asphalt in front of Oscar’s toes before meeting his gaze. “I’m not a single horned horse, not a Scottish coin, and I’m certainly not a fucking car.”
Oscar snorted, mouth twitching. “Are you?”
Oliver looked away. Finally he gave another tiny nod.
Oscar sighed. “And you’re an Alpha, too. A fucking Zenith. All this time, I’ve been sitting on a Zenith,” he whispered, sounding helpless. Then his gaze sharpened knowingly. He groaned. “Alright. What’s your actual level?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Certainly not nine.”
“No.”
“The mythical ten?”
“Maybe.”
Oscar drew a breath and let it out through pursed lips. “Guess.”
He squirmed. “I don’t know, Oscar…”
“I’m your Handler right now, Witch Oliver,” he said coolly.
Oliver gulped with a shiver. He might be sheltered between cars and the snow had stopped, but it was cold as hell. At least that was the reason he was letting himself believe. “O-okay.”
“Guess.”
He chewed on his lip as he considered all that he knew he could do but hadn’t had the time or place to practice. “I really don’t know. I’ve never found out for sure. But I suspect…”
Oscar waited.
“T-twelve.” God…he’d never said it out loud before.
The older man grunted, sounding annoyed as hell, but he didn’t say anything.
Oliver swallowed. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Oscar gritted his teeth. “How long have you been able to do all this?”
He clenched his hands where they pressed to his chest between his body and knees. “Always. Since my magic awoke. You know Primes are born, not made.”
Oscar shook his head in dismay. “Damn. Alright, why did you keep it secret even after you knew I cared? You know I’m pissed and have every right to be, but I’ll get over it, and you know it. Why?”
“Why do you think?” he asked with a bitter laugh.
“Yeah, but from me? I thought you trusted me, Oliver.”
He jerked his gaze up to Oscar. “I do!”
“Not feelin’ it, little brother.”
Oliver flinched yet again and closed his eyes. “At first I didn’t know you, okay? And it took awhile to trust you. You know that!”
“Yeah. I know.” His voice had gentled.
“Once I knew you were good—that I was safe with you—I was afraid to tell you. I was afraid you’d be pissed.” Damn it, his voice broke on that last word.
“Imagine that,” he said mildly.
Oliver opened his eyes and glared. “Yeah. Imagine.”
Oscar’s mouth twitched. Oscar’s fuse was long, and his temper short. Always had been. “Fine.”
Now the crux of Oscar’s question. Drawing a shaking breath, he stared at his Handler hard. “Are you going to report me?”
Oscar knew the answer to that question was the only answer he need give. His brown gaze went sad. “Of course not.”
Oliver stared, unbalanced by that simple statement. He’d always hoped Oscar, should he find out, would understand…wouldn’t report him. But there had always been that little sense of uncertainty, of fear that weighed more heavily than the trust. “Y-you’re not?”
“You’re my witch.” And for the first time, Oliver felt a possessiveness that indicated Oscar did think of him differently.
Oliver looked away. He’d always wondered if Oscar, despite his fine words, despite his kindness and sharing, despite his genuine care for Oliver and his intent to free all witches of bondage, believed witches were different. Now he knew, and his shoulders fell. “So you do think of me differently.” The defeat in his voice made him wince.
Oscar lifted an eyebrow. “Of course I do. I’m not stupid, Oliver. You’re a witch. I’m not.”
Oliver swallowed.
“Being different isn’t the issue and never has been, because there are all sorts of different people. I see your power, and I know why they’re afraid of you. I’m not afraid of you, because I know you, trust you, and care about you. You’re my partner, my little brother, my best friend, outside of Tracy. Seeing and knowing you’re different is one thing. But I also know something else.”
“What?” he asked dully.
“You’re as human as I am.”
Slowly he looked back at Oscar. And there sat his friend on that car. Not his Handler. Not his superior.
Oscar. The big brother he’d come to love and respect.
“You’re a witch, Oliver. I’m a gay black man. We’re different, but we’re both human. So many people don’t acknowledge witches as human. And that is the difference we’re trying to end. Some people look at me and hate me for my skin or my sexual orientation. But I’m still human to society. Mostly. I won’t get into the deeply rooted bigots. The problem we’re facing is that my skin or sex life doesn’t hurt anyone. Magic can. In fear, witches have been dehumanized. Our work is to teach society that magic doesn’t make you less human. You and I are working toward the day when witches are free from society’s demands. It’s hard to do that if we don’t have a clear working knowledge of the tools we have available.”
Oliver knew what was coming.
Oscar gave a soft laugh. “Tools like your magic,” he murmured, gentle…but with a clear reprimand in them.
Oliver closed his eyes, felt the burn of tears. “I’m sorry.”
“I understand why you kept mum. And no, I’m not telling anyone a fucking thing. Let’s call it…backup.”
Oliver gave a watery little laugh, roughly scrubbing his eyes so the tears wouldn’t fall. And he managed to keep them to himself. When he met Oscar’s gaze, he was serious. “I’m not a weapon, Oscar. I’m a human being. I don’t want to be used. Not even for the war.”
And thus the reason for his fears. An agent was duty-bound to report the powers of all witches. If Oscar hadn’t loved him enough, or took his duty to be more important than Oliver’s freedom, this whole conversation would’ve been Oliver’s downfall.
Because all level ten witches were kept in government facilities.
In a prison. They could make it as comfortable as they wanted, with every luxury and freedom inside that facility the contained witches could ever want, but it was still a prison, because leaving was not an option. If every witch belonged to the people, every level ten belonged to the government.
Oliver couldn’t imagine what would happen to him if they ever found out he was a level eleven or twelve Prime.
Oscar lifted an eyebrow. “I understand. That’s your choice. But you need to be prepared for the time when you’re called on to be exactly that. No one will force you to be. But circumstances might. Witches everywhere need their freedom, and you’re their best hope. Especially now.” His words were softly spoken, but behind them was fierce determination.
Oliver swallowed on the hurt and the fear. Yeah, Oscar wasn’t telling him anything he hadn’t already obsessed over.
Looking down at his fists, his mind whirled.
Oscar thought of him differently. Wonder slowly seeped through the waning fear as his friend’s words penetrated nearly two decades of secret terror.
It was not in a ‘differently’ that he’d expected. Not the differently that meant he was a possession or pet as so many other Handlers began to think of their witch. ‘Differently’ as in, someone loved and wanted who just so happened to have magic.
“Now. Why else did you hide it, Oliver?” Oscar’s tone was quiet, patient.
Scowling up at his friend, he wrung his scarred wrist absently. “Plausible deniability.”
Oscar’s brows jumped, but he nodded, looking away into the night, eyes lost in thought.
“What now?”
Oscar pushed off from the car with another metallic sounding thump. “Now? You go get your leg seen to. If we didn’t have to have this discussion, I would’ve made you stay on the medical floor.”
Oliver looked down at his leg.
He realized he must be in some sort of shock. He hadn’t realized he was hurting until Oscar brought it up.
“Ow…” he breathed. No. This didn’t hurt. It blazed like hell-fire. “Fuck,” he whispered.
“Come on. Let’s get you fixed up.”
“Uh, I don’t know how deep it’s in there.”
“In there…wait. You have something buried in your leg?” he asked, voice rising as he spoke. “Why the hell didn’t you say so?” he demanded, jumping forward to help Oliver stand.
“Cause I forgot I was hurt, and you were pissed,” he muttered.
Oscar sighed in exasperation. With both of them, Oliver knew.
When they turned to the building, Oliver now half-supported by Oscar, leg dragging, they found Jesse and Gwen, and Melinda and Randall standing outside the front doors, watching them.
“They’re worried,” Oliver muttered.
“I know. Maybe I’ll get lucky and they’ll think I’m not the wuss, regarding you, that they think I am.”
Oliver managed a smile. “You mean that you are?”
“Shut up,” he said lazily and lifted his head to yell at them. “Randall, Jesse, get over here! Oliver’s got something wedged in his wound.”
In the Bureau hospital, he was informed that he’d need surgery, to both their shock.
“It’s deep, I can’t reach it with forceps, and I’m not sure but what you’ve got internal damage to the muscle and veins,” the doctor said sternly. “You shouldn’t have been walking on this!”
Oscar looked guilty.
Oliver stared helplessly at his Handler, then sighed. “Yes, doctor. How is Phoebe?”
“Who? Oh, the new witch. Is that her name? She’s asleep. We’ve stitched up her wounds, put her under observation in the ICU for the night, and given her a sedative to make her rest.”
Oscar drew a slow breath. “I’m sorry, Oliver. I didn’t know.”
“I didn’t either,” he muttered. “I didn’t even feel it until you mentioned it.”
The doctor tsked in annoyance. “You’re in shock, and I’m sure it’s not just from the injuries. I understand you had to use a lot of magic tonight,” the doctor grumbled. “Injury and blood loss, coupled with exhaustive magic use…” He shook his head as if he couldn’t believe their stupidity. “Now lay back. I’ll send the nurse in to prep you. Director?”
“Yes?”
“Out.”
Oliver gave a weak laugh. Even the Director had to obey doctor’s orders. Oscar shot him a dark look. “Tracy’s gonna ream both of us for this.”
Oliver sobered with a groan. “Can’t you just discipline me?”
“Doesn’t work that way. Here is my province, home is his.”
Oliver groaned again. “Just knock me out, doc. And let it last a few weeks. Maybe Tracy’ll get over it by then.”
“I wouldn’t count on it. I’m the one with the short-term anger, remember?” Oscar gave him a searching look that Oliver still couldn’t meet, before giving him a gentle punch on the arm and left the curtained section. Oliver heard him talking some yards away. “Doctor, I want you to keep Witch Phoebe unconscious until we can put her in the same room as Oliver. She knows him by sight. She allowed him to help her tonight, so she’ll be less likely to fight or flee us, if she wakes with him there.”
“I don’t think that’ll be a problem. She should sleep through the night, and he should be out of surgery and awake by then.”
Oliver heard footsteps arriving. “Oscar?” Randall asked.
“Randall, I want you to assign a team to guard the pair of them. If you see anything unusual, keep it to yourself, but it should be quiet. She’s sedated, he’s going into surgery.”
“Surgery?” Gwen gasped.
“There’s a substantial shard lodged in his leg and it may have done damage. Oliver’s gonna limp for a little while as he heals. Melinda, Phoebe is Air, too, so I want you outside Phoebe’s room. Jesse and Gwen, stay with Oliver until Randall’s got them a team.”
“Yes, sir.”
Then the nurse bustled in and he didn’t hear much more.
He caught a glimpse of Jesse though, when he was rolled from the prep area. The man’s mouth was tight and he watched Oliver as he was wheeled away, eyes dark with some emotion that Oliver couldn’t peg.