…..CHAPTER 6…..
Oliver stared at the mug shots of the various Kipling family members. The indictments had stuck. The mountain of evidence they, the local police, the FBI, and the ATF had collected was enough to crush them both literally and figuratively. And all four agencies had dotted every damn I and crossed every fucking T. They’d gotten and received every conceivable warrant there was under the sun, just so those fuckers couldn’t get off on a technicality, and they’d been scrupulous about communication between agencies, not something that they usually did. Inter-agency pissing contests were the norm.
Braden Kipling didn’t have enough money to bail anyone in his family out of jail, not even himself.
It was unusual that they’d managed to get them all, too. Even the wives and daughters had their fingers in the pie—also unusual.
He’d think it was a set-up, if things hadn’t gone so well from all the flaming hoops they’d jumped. Outside of a few hiccups, things had gone as well as any officer of the law could ever hope.
Oliver hesitated, then opened a notepad and jotted down his thoughts.
“Who is our informant?”
“Where did they get the info from?
“How did they get the info?”
“Why did they squeal?” He underlined that last sentence. For some reason, he knew that last question was more important than the others.
“Oliver?”
He looked up at Jesse with a questioning eyebrow.
“Got a moment?”
“Sure.”
Jesse parked his butt on the edge of Oliver’s desk, glancing at the entrance to his cubicle. When he turned his gaze back, he was serious. “I don’t know much about Water. My first witch was Air.”
Oliver remembered Phoebe from last night again, and smiled to himself. She was sharp, that one. He made himself focus on Jesse. “Okay. What do you need to know?” He couldn’t help the slightly wary note in his voice, and he kicked himself for it.
Jesse noticed with a lifted eyebrow, but didn’t comment. “Should I do or say anything, expect anything in particular?”
“Being Water, she’ll be very attuned to your bodily functions. If she hands you a bottle of water, I advise drinking it,” he said dryly.
Jesse looked startled, then he chuckled. “Got it. What else?”
Oliver considered Jesse. He didn’t know the man very well, though Jesse was always friendly, had a very good record of bringing in the bad guys, and he was a noted witch ally. Even Handlers could be real assholes to their own witches, which begged the question of why they bothered to become one. Jesse’s Air witch, an old man named Reuben, had retired and gone to live in the Federal Witch Retirement Village in Boulder. Oliver hadn’t known the man well, because he’d retired a year after Oliver arrived, and Jesse had been without a witch since. But while he’d seen Jesse with Reuben, he’d seemed a decent—if distant—Handler.
“I’d do some internet searches. Look up their needs and their quirks. From what I understand, Water witches tend to like long leisurely baths, love rainstorms and snow, and hate heat. It’s hard to find them in Arizona, I hear.”
Jesse snorted. “Old Reuben was Air. He hated closed in places.”
Oliver nodded. “That’s a common sign.”
“And Earth witches don’t like heights.”
Oliver shrugged. “I’ve never had much problem with them. It doesn’t matter the known common quirks of an Element. They’re not always true.”
“But they usually are.”
“Usually.” Oliver nodded, waiting. He knew damn well why he wasn’t particularly afraid of heights, but he wasn’t saying.
Jesse stood up, stretching with a groan. “Alright, I’ll let you get back to work. I just want to be a good Handler for Gwen. She’s such a shy little thing. Wasn’t expecting that.”
There was already affection in that tone, and Oliver kept his smile to himself. “She is. Have you looked up her history? That might help understand her more.”
Jesse nodded thoughtfully. “Will do,” he said as he strolled out and turned left.
Oliver glanced at the clock on his computer.
Show time.
He stood up and went to Oscar’s office. The renovation of the place was ongoing, and eventually the whole floor would be nothing but offices for two. He’d have his desk with Oscar eventually, but in the meantime…even the Director had to give way to construction.
Oscar looked up from the paper he was reading when he walked in. “What’s up?”
Oliver muttered a curse under his breath. Damn Handler knew him too well.
Oscar grinned. “I know you too well.”
He rolled his eyes. “I want to ask a favor.”
“Okay. You know you don’t have to ask.”
“Yes, I do. It’s on company time.”
“We aren’t a company, we’re a government agency.”
“Even worse.”
Oscar lifted his brows, dropped the paper and leaned back in his chair. “What do you need?”
“Hmmm. School let’s out in half-an-hour, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Didn’t you have to pick the kids up today?”
“As a matter of fact, I do, thanks for the reminder,” he said without missing a beat, snatched up his keys. “You should come with me. I need to bounce ideas off you, and you can ask me your favor on the way.”
Oliver followed him out of the building, into the car.
“Alright, out with it,” he said as he slid the car onto the street from the merge lane.
“We need to talk with Miss Donovan.”
“Cara’s teacher’s assistant? Why?”
Oliver hesitated. He didn’t want to turn her in. And frankly, he wasn’t one hundred percent positive the car wasn’t bugged.
Ugh. Paranoia.
Oscar gave a theatrical groan. “Right. I need to ask her a question that I forgot about last night.”
Oliver shot Oscar a grateful look.
“Tracy wants you to come over for dinner tonight.”
“I haven’t been to my apartment in nearly a week,” he said, half-amused. But half-worried. Stress was building up, and he knew a nightmare lurked.
“I honestly don’t know why you don’t just live with us, Oliver.”
“You know why.”
“I do, but still.”
Oliver looked out his window at the passing buildings. Witches came in more flavors than just Element and Aspect. All witches drew on the magic in the world around them to perform their spells, but most didn’t harbor any of that magic in their bodies. Probably ninety-eight percent couldn’t do it.
A few could intentionally draw that magic into themselves and ‘store it’ for later use.
But Oliver was one of the rare few that passively, unintentionally, drew that magic into himself and held it. Like the Cherry Creek reservoir held water, he held magic inside himself, ready to use at need. And like reservoirs, his body had a limit to how much he could hold. His limit was stupidly high, but he had a limit. Thankfully it was something levels eight and up did, so it wasn’t anything to hide.
The problem lay in the fact that he had nightmares.
Sometimes his nightmares, fueled by the magical energy inside him, could hurt others. Not that he could schedule his nightmares. But since he hadn’t had one in awhile, he was overdue, and every night he stayed at the Dale-Carson household was a risk of having one with the kids around.
“I’d rather stay at the House tonight, if you don’t mind.”
“I tell you what. After dinner, I’ll take you home.”
“Okay. Sounds good.”
Oscar knew why. He didn’t argue. And he didn’t argue because he trusted Oliver to know his limits and his powers.
The streets around the school were already crowded with parents to pick up their kids. Oscar got lucky enough to find a close spot as a car pulled out just as they arrived.
“I’ll go around back,” Oliver muttered.
“That’s fine. Keep me updated.”
Oliver nodded, patting his pocket where his cell phone rested.
“Give the school a boost, too, while you’re at it. I’ll let the principal know.”
“Good idea.” Maybe if he dropped enough energy into the school’s grid battery, he wouldn’t have enough energy to break something when he dreamed. He found the grid box, placed his hands on it and sent his excess energy into the school’s battery bank, the crystals inside fully engaged by the school’s daytime energy needs.
They must have been really low, because he could almost feel the crystals sucking his energy like a vacuum.
The hairs on the back of his neck tingled. He restrained a shudder of loathing, memories crowding him that he ruthlessly shoved away.
Looking around the corner, he was pleased to see the little yellow scooter sitting in its place. He had wondered if she would be here, since she claimed to be sick. Oliver found a little nook beside the trash bin, and waited.
Half-an-hour in, he called Oscar, who said in a harried voice that he would take the kids to the playground to play while Oliver waited. He could hear the two arguing in the background and grinned.
When Miss Donovan finally appeared, she was dressed in slacks today, her belt still clinking with the chatelaine items. A warm knee-length coat wrapped around her, and she wore gloves. It was a cold day, but something about the way she moved stiffly… No, her arms were moving stiffly. She fumbled her keys three times before managing to get it the fourth.
No, her hands.
Oliver shivered, hoping this wasn’t what he thought it. And memory… Mom’s wooden spoon slammed down on his hands…
He gave himself a shake. Not now! When the hell was he going to get over that shit?
Oliver stepped from his little hidey-hole. She heard him and whirled, eyes widening with terror when she saw him.
Oliver restrained a sigh of frustration and gently took the key from her hand. She winced when he touched her.
He knew what this was about. Dammit. Oliver, staring her in the eye, gently pulled the glove from her hand, then looked down.
Her palm and fingers were swollen, reddened, even bruising. He looked back up at her. “Who?” he murmured.
She swallowed and looked away. “I don’t know what you mean. I fell.”
“I can’t help you, can’t make recommendations, unless I know what’s going on.”
“I don’t need your help,” she muttered, taking her glove back and putting it on, hissing as she did.
“Miss Donovan, you’re an unregistered Air witch. Someone is keeping you hidden, and abusing you while they do it.”
“He’s not…” She stopped, then shook her head. “It’s not abuse. It’s to keep me safe. It’s to keep others safe.”
“Pain doesn’t keep you safe, Miss, doesn’t stop the magic. And yes, this is abuse. You have every right to your own magic, to your life without someone causing you pain and fear.”
“I can’t talk. I have to go.”
“Who is doing this to you?” He couldn’t help stepping closer, wanting to offer some sort of comfort or assurance of protection. She was being abused! Her hands…
“No one. I have to leave.”
“Miss Donovan…” His hand gently hooked around her elbow.
“Stop!” she cried, mouth tight, a wilderness of pain and anger in her eyes.
Oliver stopped. Her very real fear, the pain, the entrapment… They overlay something far wilder, far deeper. And it was something he recognized so damn well.
Rage. He heard it there in her voice, buried, but so close to the surface. She was at her breaking point. He could feel it.
“What are you doing?” a man snapped.
Miss Donovan whirled to face him, an older man with her eyes and nose, same honey-blonde hair, but with plenty of gray at the temples. “Dad!” she cried softly. Oliver heard the despair in her voice.
Oliver stepped around her, offering his hand. Thank god his wrists were buried in his coat. “Mr. Donovan. I’m pleased to meet you, sir. I was just talking with Miss Donovan, hoping she’d like to go out for a drink.”
The man glared at him, suspicious. “Phoebe doesn’t drink.”
Oliver offered a shrug and a smile. “I didn’t say alcohol. I’m partial to coffee, myself.”
“Phoebe doesn’t date. Now get lost. My daughter isn’t interested.”
Oliver gave him a cool smile. “Isn’t that her decision?”
“It is her decision. Now leave.”
Either the man didn’t know he was a witch, or he wasn’t making an issue of it, because witches weren’t allowed to date, or even be in public alone.
Oliver turned to her, held out his hand. She hesitantly lifted hers, out of instinct he thought, and he held the tips of her fingers, lifting it to his lips for a gentle kiss. “If you change your mind, let me know. I like scooter’s too.” He let his voice sound playful, as if they’d been discussing her scooter.
She swallowed and nodded. “I appreciate it,” she whispered. “But I’m afraid I’m not interested in dating.”
Oliver gave her a nod, then moseyed away, heading for the playground. He casually glanced around, saw the man hissing something at Phoebe before getting into a black sedan and driving away in a fury. She got onto her scooter, hands barely curling around the bars as she left.
Oscar saw him first as he arrived at the playground. Oliver shook his head very briefly. His Handler’s mouth went tight, but his voice when he wrangled the kids was light-hearted.
After dinner, outside on the deck again, Oliver finally told him. Tracy arrived as he broached the subject.
“I wanted to meet Miss Donovan again. Her name is Phoebe.”
“And?”
“She’s an untrained Air witch.”
“Fuck,” Oscar muttered.
Tracy whistled. “Cara’s going to be heart-broken when she loses her.”
“I’m not ready to bring her in.” That was a pretty bold statement from an agent, witch or not. But Oscar had made a point over the years of treating him like an equal partner—in front of everyone—and there weren’t many witches, even in their office, who had that much leeway or authority.
Oscar looked at him sharply. “Oh?”
It was their literal job, to find and register witches that had evaded the registration law. But both Oliver’s reticence in collecting her and Oscar’s willingness to wait spoke of their mutual understanding and agreement in their work. Oscar’s treatment of him as an equal had never been appreciated more.
“She’s being abused.”
“Then it’s even more important to get her registered and into training.” It was an observation rather than a demand to act.
“I don’t think so. She’s ready to blow, and if we show up to collect her, she might just blow at us.”
Tracy barked a sharp laugh.
Oliver belatedly realized what he’d said. He smiled back. “Sorry. Bad pun.”
Oscar shook his head. “If she’s being abused, Oliver, we have to save her. Why are you hesitating?”
“Because she’s in denial. And she’s angry as well as scared. Yanking her out will make it worse.”
“Leaving her in and letting her magic explode won’t fix it.”
Oliver rubbed his forehead. “I know. But I don’t know what else to do. I want to follow her tomorrow, get her away from her father, and talk to her.”
“Her father?” Tracy’s voice sounded sick.
Oliver looked at him, puzzled, then grimaced. “No, I don’t think it’s like that. If I’m right, he’s trying to hide her magic from everyone, including her.”
“You mean she doesn’t know?”
“Oh, she definitely knows. But she doesn’t know how to use it. I think she’s completely untrained. And she’s powerful, too.”
“Ah, hell. And she’s your age at least.” Oscar put his head against the back of his lounger, shaking his head as he stared up at the sky. Teaching older witches how to use their power was a hazard to teacher and student. Every witch gained power as they aged. Once adulthood was reached, it slowed down to a snail’s pace, but even then, they grew. Mostly because of experience and constant use of their magic, it was believed. Because she was already at her peak power…with no control over it, it was a danger to everyone.
“Is there anything else you could do?” Tracy asked, lifting his glass of tea.
Oscar shrugged. “Oliver’s right. It’s either bring her in, which will break any trust before it even starts, or we try to ease her fears and gain her trust and hope to convince her to come with us. With someone powerful like her, it’s best to go slowly.”
Oliver nodded to himself. That summed it up.
“Let’s get you home, Oliver,” Oscar said, smacking his hands down onto his thighs. He stood with a groan.
Tracy looked surprised. “You’re not staying?”
Oliver didn’t look at him as he shook his head. “I think I need to be alone tonight.”
Dimly he saw Oscar make a warning motion to his husband, and Tracy desisted. “Have a good night then, Oliver. See you later.”
The drive to the office was quiet. Neither of them really wanted to discuss this. Tomorrow would be soon enough, and Oliver was too tired to try.
“See you in the morning, Oliver. Sleep well.”
“I’ll try,” he said evasively.
He could almost feel the nightmare lurking. Oliver went inside the building, but instead of going to the seventh floor—known as the House—where the witches lived, he went to the back of the building, where the batteries sat, and gave them the jump of their lives, dropping as much of his magic into them as he could manage without blowing the poor things up. Then he built himself a mental barrier to keep himself from absorbing any more magic tonight.
He went to his apartment, finally feeling as if his magic wouldn’t get out of hand.
Like every Witch, his home was a single bedroom apartment, nothing fancy. The only allowance for his rank was his proximity to the elevator; he might be the Director’s witch, but that didn’t mean he was treated any differently. Oliver didn’t mind. He didn’t need anything more than this. His door opened onto a small tiled area with the kitchen directly in front with an open bar along the entrance, the opening into the kitchen on the left. Directly in front of him two stools waited for asses that never sat there. To the left of the kitchen was the bathroom, then the open area of his living room. A two seat settee with a chair, coffee table and side table between couch and chair sat along the wall shared with the hallway. His bedroom was in the back left corner, a tiny little place, but it did have a double bed so he could sprawl.
Oliver closed the door and went to the window next to his bedroom door, opened it on the cold air. The place was stuffy. Unused.
Unsurprising. He hadn’t been here in five days.
Oliver plugged his cell in on his side table, took a shower, closed the window and fell onto his bed, leaving the side lamp on.
Staring at the ceiling, he swallowed down the sense of anxiety mounting with every moment he drew closer to falling asleep. He’d never feared sleep this badly before, not even as a kid, which was saying something. Tonight loomed over him.
Oliver rolled to face the window, the night outside the blinds so very black. His magic, even calmed from the energy dump he’d made, was roiling with his distress. And the storm. Damn. Snow was coming. That didn’t help.
He shook his head, considered finding the sleeping pills prescribed years ago. He’d used two out of the bottle. The rest were no doubt far expired.
No, he couldn’t take any of that crap. They hadn’t helped, just made him groggy upon waking, and slower to reel in the panic and his magic.
Closing his eyes, he made himself relax, one limb at a time.
The darkness didn’t hide them—his glowing, shaking green hands.
In the night of their room, he heard soft words of fear. “What’s that light?”
He looked over his shoulder, barely saw his brother in the dark—saw fear.
“Dad! Mom! Something’s wrong with Oli!”
“No!” Oliver whispered, frantic. “Nothing’s wrong. It doesn’t hurt. Don’t wake them,” he hissed.
Too late. The heavy, uneven tread of feet came to them and Oliver shivered in fear. Whoever was coming must have been already on their feet and in the kitchen to hear and respond this quickly.
Dad swung the door open, lurching in just enough to lean on the doorframe. His eyes took in their room, light from the hall pouring in behind him. His face swung toward Oliver. It took a moment, but then his eyes widened as he took in his hands. Oliver looked down at them, too. The green light was getting brighter with every breath he took as the panic rose. He shoved his hands under the blanket. “No, Dad! Nothing’s wrong. Go back to the living room. Do what you were doing!”
Dad’s eyes bugged out, and he started to shake. “Oh God,” he breathed. “Not you, too! No! Not again!” And then Dad lurched toward him.
He was used to seeing fists, but this time when Dad came at him with his hands, the earth below him trembled. Dad unbalanced and fell to one knee. His fear had translated into anger, and he punched Oliver from below.
—Her golden glowing hands ran red with blood, and the air whirled with every piece of the heavy crockery they owned, the cabinets flying open. Dad’s cry of rage and grief rang in her ears, and his belt flew, lashing across her face and shoulder, his fist clipped her chin.—
Dad’s roar of rage terrified him, and he cringed, holding out his hand, the green light sharp. Floorboards crunched loudly in the air, water flooded up from the ground, wind filled the room, and he saw lightning outside the window. From the same opening where the water came, a sharp shaft of stone speared at an angle—straight through Dad’s stomach. Blood flew everywhere… His brother shrieked in terror…
—Dad raised his fist to strike her again, and water burst from the kitchen faucet, the soil from all her plants exploded upward. Vaguely she felt heat coming from her own body in waves. Everything was a blur, nothing made sense, terror and rage and loss consumed her—
Oliver bolted up, sweat coating every inch of him, a strangled cry sounding in the room. Around him the air trembled with his magic, other elements, too, all ready to do his bidding…
His cell was ringing.
“Fuck,” he panted, body shaking. At least this time he hadn’t done something with his magic. He’d dumped enough to prevent an accidental earthquake. There was a reason the building was on dampers.
It rang again. Oliver snatched it up. “Yeah?” God, his voice sounded like crap.
“Oliver! Get down to the front right away! We have an incident to deal with.”
Oliver rolled out of bed and yanked his pants on, buttoning them. “What is it?”
“I haven’t been briefed, but it’s big enough to get the attention of civilians. Get down here!”
“You’re already here? It’s…christ, it’s only eleven?” It felt like the nightmare had been hours long.
“I know. Come on!”
His shirt wasn’t fully buttoned, and his boots weren’t tied, his coat was over his arm as he slammed his door behind him.
“I’m hitting the elevator now.”
Oscar answered with a click.