by K. F. Breene
“No.” I leaned across the desk to get a look at the computer screen. “I’ll be taking him home. He doesn’t need your transportation.”
Her disarming smile didn’t do anything for the tightness in my chest. “It’s standard procedure, Miss Price. Sometimes the various tests can take a lot out of patients. We like to make sure they get home safe.”
“Yeah? Well if he goes missing, what happens then?”
Her smile faltered. “I assure you, he will be quite safe.”
“I know he will. Because I’ll be taking him home.” I gestured toward the computer. “Type that in. He declines the transportation service.”
Now her smile said she was ready to talk down a hysterical woman. “Supplying transportation is—”
“Type it in, cupcake. That’s the end of it.” Cripes. I was starting to sound like my mother.
“We don’t—”
I gestured at the computer again before turning Mordecai away from the desk. “Let’s get you where you’re supposed to go. At any time, if you feel you need to, and can, run like hell. There’s no shame in taking flight. There’re no heroes among patients.”
Mordecai nodded stiffly.
Up the wide marble staircase and to the right, we walked into room two-oh-one. Two people sitting sat on the plush cushions of the wooden chairs pushed against the artfully decorated wall. A leafy green plant adorned the corner beside the check-in window.
“A doctor’s office in a government building. What could possibly go wrong?” I asked quietly, my hand still on Mordecai’s arm. I didn’t want him to take off running prematurely.
The man at the desk, as plain as they came, with brown hair and an average face, glanced up when we stopped in front of him. Before greeting us, he checked his computer screen. “Mordecai?” he said.
“Yes,” I answered, leaning against the desk.
“Fantastic. Just have a seat and we’ll be with you shortly.”
I nodded and ushered Mordecai over to the line of chairs, perching on the seat next to his. “You’re going to be fine. Everything is going to be cool. They’re going to poke you, and take blood, and hook you up to computers. I’ll be here to pick you up when they’re done. Okay?”
“What about you?”
“I have to go to that room downstairs somewhere.”
“I mean…” He swallowed. “What are they going to do to you?”
It occurred to me that his nervousness hadn’t been for himself. It had been for me.
I smiled and put my hand on his shoulder. “They’re going to hook me up to a machine and attempt to read my power level. When that goes wonky, they’ll try another. Then one more. They’ll draw blood, curse the machines, and probably scratch their heads. I’ve done this a time or two. It’s nothing.”
“The more powerful Demigods can sense the power in magical people. If Kieran is calling you in again, he won’t let you bamboozle them this time.”
My stomach rolled. I wasn’t a huge fan of unpredictable authority figures. I shrugged it away. “Whatever comes, I’ll deal with it. I’ve been hustling for a long time. I can handle whatever they throw at me.”
28
Alexis
“Ah. Alexis Price, correct?” an elderly woman with thick glasses and curled white hair said as she looked up from an appointment book. A younger woman roamed in the back of the square office attached to the sterile waiting room, sticking papers into a row of boxes.
No plants, flowers, or racks of magazines adorned the beige walls of the waiting room. No rugs jazzed up the cream linoleum floor. Simple wooden chairs with no cushions dotted the left wall, ample space between them.
“You guys really went above and beyond for this department, huh? A real eye for decorating, this.” I gave her a thumbs-up. “Very welcoming. Nailed it.”
“I’ll be with you in a moment,” the younger woman with smooth bronzed skin said as she worked through her stack.
“You’re here for an assessment, is that correct?” the older woman asked, looking through those thick glasses at me.
“It’s got to be damn annoying that no one ever answers you, huh?” I asked, cocking a hip and leaning it against the lip of the desk.
Her cloudy gray eyes took in my face for a long moment as the pretty younger woman turned with a furrowed brow.
“I don’t appreciate that tone, young woman,” the older woman said. She made a note in her appointment book.
“What happens when the other employee needs that chair?” I asked.
The younger woman distributed her last paper and bustled toward me, her skirt-suit formfitting and her manner professional. She wasn’t doing a bang-up job of hiding her wariness and confusion, however. She probably thought I was one of those magical nutcases who couldn’t handle her powers, had said goodbye to reality, and opted to live in her own world with imaginary people.
She was only half right.
“Can I help you?” she asked, pulling out the chair.
The older woman looked up with a frustrated scowl before her form flickered and vanished.
“I’m being passively forced to get tested,” I responded. “Alexis Price. An appointment was made for me. Tell me, should I have brought my own straitjacket, or will those be provided?” I laughed a little. “I mean, I feel like I’ve showed up to a black-tie affair in jeans, know what I’m saying? My ensemble does not fit in with the surroundings.”
Her eyes flicked past me before turning to her computer, a smile revealing a small dimple in her cheek. “We get all manner of magical people through these doors, and it’s thought that keeping a blank canvas will allow their imaginations to roam.”
“Uh-huh. And people actually buy that line?”
Her smile widened. “No one usually asks about it, actually. This department sees magical beings with the highest power levels.”
“So they are more interested in themselves than in their surroundings?”
She fought the smile this time and pressed her lips together. In other words, exactly.
The printer whirred to life and she squinted at the screen, her expression slipping. “Oh.” Wariness crossed her features and she darted a look behind her. When her eyes hit mine again, they held fear and a question.
She’d just read what my magic entailed and pieced together what she’d witnessed earlier—how I’d appeared to talk to someone who wasn’t there.
It always tickled me that magical people, who rolled with so many oddities in life, like people changing into animals, causing things to spontaneously combust, or controlling others through mind manipulation, took pause at the fact that the dead walked among them.
“Just…go ahead and fill out this paperwork.” The woman attached the printouts to a clipboard and handed them through the window. “Someone will be with you shortly.”
Ten minutes and a bunch of annoying questions about my mental stability regarding my magic later, the door off to the side of the waiting room opened, emitting a bald man with bushy eyebrows. His dark eyes roamed my body in an analytical way before coming to rest on my paperwork.
“Miss Price.” He took a stiff step into the room. His eyes dipped and his eyebrows rose, telling me this wasn’t a guy who was in the habit of making eye contact. He probably had a big brain and a lot of social awkwardness. “May I call you Alexis?”
“Call me whatever you please. It won’t make this situation any more or less unpleasant.” I stood and tucked my clipboard to my side. They wouldn’t ask for it until I was in the room.
“Of course. Alexis, my name is Mountebank Iams, and I’ll be assisting you today.” A mountebank was the magical equivalent of doctor, a title derived from an old-timey word used to denote a charlatan who sold fake medicine. When the magical community had forced their way out into the open a century ago, they’d had a sense of humor about the way they organized things. “If you will follow me…” Eyes still downcast and brows still raised, he lifted his hand toward the door.
Ignoring
my flip-flopping stomach, I lifted my chin and held my shoulders straight as I entered the small sterile hallway.
“You guys don’t employ shock treatment, right? That hasn’t been brought in as a special measure?” I asked as I peeled off to the side so he could regain the lead.
“You have nothing to worry about, Alexis. We are experienced and skilled in determining the power level of someone your age. It will take no time at all.”
Did it count as lying if the person didn’t know they were lying?
“Here we are.” He stopped in front of an open door with a large wooden B nailed to its surface.
Pretending like I was eager to cooperate, I stepped into the room and glanced around. Three empty chairs waited, each one pushed up against a differently colored wall that didn’t house the door. My wall color options were green, red, and yellow. I felt as though I’d been reintroduced to preschool and was about to be asked whether I could fit the differently shaped blocks into the right holes. The chair I chose would be their first clue into something related to my personality or brain that I wasn’t educated enough to understand.
Each corner hosted one of the evaluation machines, the tubes and wires arranged in such a way that it looked almost organized. The knobs and dials were not labeled, and the screens were all black.
“Pick any chair you like,” Mountebank Iams said, gesturing at the chairs.
I’d already been rolling through eeny, meeny, and then counted five more times so they didn’t know what I was doing. It was as random as I could make it. I sat in the red chair, looking on the yellow wall, a color that I wasn’t fond of.
“Perfect. If you’ll excuse me for a moment, the nurse will be in for some preliminary checks, and I’ll continue from there.” Mountebank Iams left the room and closed the door behind him, that wall white. He’d now go write down my selection and the time it took to make it.
A moment later, a red-faced nurse with a can-do expression and a tight bun strolled in.
“Good afternoon, Miss Price,” she said, her smile absent but her tone kind. She clicked a button on the machine next to me, and it whirred to life. I didn’t bother telling her it wouldn’t work. They’d just assume I was an idiot. “Let’s see what we have here.”
She put out her hand, and I relinquished the clipboard.
“You’ve been tested three times before, is that correct?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“And each result was different?”
“Yes. Though the third was in the ballpark of the first.”
“Right, yes.” She traced her finger down the page on the clipboard before folding the sheet in half lengthwise. She traced her finger down the next page. “You can see those who haven’t made the transition to the afterlife?”
“Yes. There was one in the office area of the sterile check-in room.”
To her credit, she didn’t even pause.
“Have you experienced any fluctuations of power?”
“Nope.” Just like I’d answered on the questionnaire.
“Any reason to suspect your power has grown or changed in any way?”
“Nope.” Also like I’d answered on the questionnaire.
“Can you call people back from the Line?”
“Anyone close to a spirit can call them back from the Line. Are you actually asking if I can call them back from beyond the Line?”
Her eyes flicked up. “Can you call people back from beyond the Line?” Her emphasis had been slight, but it was there.
The marathon of annoyance had begun. It would start with her and spread to the other staff.
“Yes, I can,” I answered.
“Can you then send them back within the same session?”
“Yes. God, I hope people don’t call spirits if they don’t have the power to send them home again when they’re done. What turds.”
Her stern brown eyes held a warning about giving my opinion or talking out of turn. A warning I intended to ignore. They weren’t in control here. Nor were they in charge. They needed my cooperation to get what they were after, and I did not plan on giving it. I might as well amuse myself while I was trapped in the chair, waiting for them to exhaust their efforts.
“What percentage of the day are you able to see spirits?” she asked, back on target.
“It is a wonder I bothered filling out that questionnaire at all. A hundred percent of the waking hours.”
Her eyes drifted up from the paper, but I couldn’t read the look in them. Her assessment lasted only a moment, and I suddenly wondered if she thought I was lying.
Why the hell would a person lie about something like that? It wasn’t something to brag about. The opposite, in fact.
“And sleeping?”
“Your mind controls your dreams. Spirits don’t have access to your mind.” When she didn’t immediately continue her line of questioning, I simplified my answer: “None.”
“You don’t dream about spirits?”
“I dream about people who may have died, as I do about the living, but the dreams are controlled by me. They are puppets on the strings of my subconscious, or my conscious mind if I gain control of my dream.”
Her eyes were on me again, still unreadable. “You can control your own dreamscape?”
“Not like a Dream Walker. Anyone, magical or otherwise, can do what I’m saying. It’s called a lucid dream. You control your dream, but you aren’t physically in it. You’re…wakeful dreaming.” I crossed an ankle over a knee. “I feel like you should know what I’m talking about. They have schools for what you do, right?”
Her eyes hardened, and a little tingle at the base of my spine said not to mess with her.
I had rarely listened to my gut feelings in the past—why would I now?
“The spirits you see, how transitionary are they?” she asked.
“I’m not sure what that means, like I said on the questionnaire. Do you mean how close to the Line are they?”
“How solid is the form of the spirit?”
“Oh. Completely solid. Like looking at you.”
Her eyes were like Chuck Norris’s fists. “Every spirit you see is as solid as a living person?”
“Yes.”
“How are you able to differentiate between the two?”
“In short, I just can. I can feel it, I guess. Sometimes there is a soft inner glow, sometimes a soft outer glow, but mostly…I just know. I’ve never really thought about how. No one taught me to do this stuff, I just…do it.”
Her look said she wasn’t impressed. In her head, she was certainly saying “I see” in a disbelieving sort of way.
“Do they talk to you, these spirits?” she asked.
And on she went, sometimes asking for a painful degree of explanation to a question I’d already answered. Finally, when her efforts were exhausted and her patience had worn thin, she gave me a crusty look and told me the mountebank would be in shortly.
A half-hour wasn’t shortly. By the time he strolled in, clearly without any sort of urgency, I was tapping my foot and wondering how Mordecai was getting on. I hoped he wouldn’t be done before me. They might just send him home without waiting. Which would’ve been fine, had I been positive he’d end up at home.
“Hello again, Alexis,” the mountebank said, his attempt at being chummy ruined by his lack of a cheery voice and eye contact. “Now, we’ll just connect you up and get a reading, and you’ll be all set.”
I was tempted to let them get what they wanted without hassle. Tempted, but not willing. Kieran was trying to put me in a box to use at his leisure. Besides which, the governing body kept more records on powerful magical people—and they also encouraged them to move into the magical zone. Even if I could afford it, I didn’t need a bunch of busybodies sneering at my weird magical traits.
So I settled in, squishing my magic into a little ball and shoving it way down deep, where even the strongest machines couldn’t read it. Tubes and bands and whirligigs in place, on went the machine.
It took three minutes for the mountebank’s face to droop into a grimace. Another minute for his brow to bunch. One more to peer down at the machine, then over at me.
Yup. That’s how it’s going to go. Your expectations, no matter how hard you try, will not be met. Good day, sir.
And he did try. He moved me from one machine to the other. Then back to the first. The tubes sucking strangely at my skin were checked. The headpiece altered. My vein slapped before another sample was taken.
All the while, he kept getting different results. If I were better at this, I could target one result and keep hitting that. That’d satisfy him. But alas, I was only human.
“Now, Alexis,” the mountebank said twenty minutes later with sweat standing on his brow and frustration in every line on his face. The no-nonsense nurse stood by the machine on the red wall, accusation clear in her stance. “Something is not adding up.” His smile was condescending. He pointed at the long sheet of perforated white paper in his left hand. “We’ve taken these readings three times. All are different, but all of them suggest a lower-powered magic.” His eyes flicked up, then back down. That was as close as he usually got to checking my expression. “And yet the type of magic you’ve described is indicative of someone with a substantial power level.”
“Huh.” I tapped my chin. “Conundrum. Maybe there’s a plate in my head that I’m unaware of? You know”—I snapped—“everyone always says my personality is electric. Maybe that is messing up the machine.”
The nurse’s lips tightened further. The mountebank shook his head, reading the printout again. He glanced at the machine. “I need to make a call. Nurse Jessub, come with me, please.”
She glared at me all the way out the door. We wouldn’t end up friends, she and I.
Fifteen minutes later, I was unsurprised to see the mountebank bring in a lanky man with a buzzcut, keen eyes, and a smile that said people did what he wanted if they wanted to keep their appendages. The nurse filed in after him with an expression that said, This is for your own good.