Page 1 of Restored

Crackedwhite bone protrudes from the boy’s skin, his mangled arm bent on the bed at an awkward angle. An acrid smell wafts from the wound. At one time, that smell would have made me gag. Now, it hardly fazes me as I reach forward and place my shaking hands over the injury.

I take a deep, steadying breath, and white light seeps from my sweaty palms. My power purrs as it skates over the teenage boy’s mangled arm—pockets of white pus ooze from the injury, and guilt courses through me. Had I gotten here sooner, I could have saved Oliver days of pain and discomfort.

I can’t think of such things now. Time is not on my side tonight. I close my eyes, concentrating on drawing out the infection. It burns up my fingers and into my hands.

“How did you get this?” I grit my teeth as I push my healing power further into his arm.

“I, uh, fell off a horse,” Oliver stammers nervously.

I know he is lying. I can feel the faint pulse of the power he’s trying to conceal. I’ve healed him before, always a broken bone. I don’t dare ask what his power is. The less I know the better, but if I had to guess, I’d wager he could levitate, maybe teleport. “Why don’t you report your power to the King?” I ask instead, as much to distract him as anything else.

The burning sensation in my hands fade as the infection dissipates. Oliver’s face pales, and he begins to fidget. “You, of all people, should know why, Layla.” His voice is a soft, pleading whisper. “I have family here. My mother is growing old. She wouldn’t make it long without me,” he responds, just as the pounding of fists on wood sounds from a few doors down, so close that we both jump.

It can only be the King’s men out collecting the monthly tithe. It’s the very reason I was able to sneak away, but now, it means I’m running out of time.

“You know your secret is safe with me,” I assure him as sweat drips from my forehead. The cramped room Oliver shares with his mother is hot and stuffy; my clothes cling to my body from perspiration.

I open the stopper to my abilities, releasing as much power as I dare, attempting to close the wound. It’s hard to concentrate on anything but my heart thrumming wildly in my chest.

Pounding sounds again, closer this time, and the floor creaks loudly as Thea rushes in. Panic is clear on her face.

Oliver’s breath catches, but I tamp down on my own panic, focusing on my breath. I close my eyes, picturing exactly what I want. The skin of my palms heats as bone resets, and the damaged skin starts to mend itself.

I’m nearly finished when the dreaded pounding at the front door reverberates through the worn-down wood.

Oliver and his mother freeze, but I refuse to stop. I need only a few more seconds to complete the healing. Thea touches my shoulder gently. “You must go.” I barely hear her over the hammering of my heartbeat.

“OPEN UP.” The guards beat at the door again, so hard I worry the dilapidated wood might splinter away leaving a gaping hole.

“Coming!” Thea calls, shooting me a worried look.

I trail my power along Oliver’s arm one last time to make sure I’ve healed everything before cutting it off. His eyes are wild when I look back up.

“Be smart and try to be more careful,” I whisper as Oliver helps me shove the window open. Splinters shuck off the frame as I climb out.

“Thank you, Layla,” he whispers after me, a moment before the guards burst in.

I sprint down the street as fast as my feet will take me. I gulp down the chill night air, ignoring the foul smells thatwaft in my direction and instead relish in the way it cools my overly heated skin.

Hurtling down the cobblestone streets, I cloak myself in dark corners and trip on the raised stones. I’d never been particularly adept at being stealthy, but after years of sneaking around and intimate knowledge of what would happen to me if I was caught, I’d learned how to stay hidden.

Screams pierce the air abruptly halting my legs. I scramble over loose gravel fusing my back to the crumbling building behind me. I peer down the empty streets to see an older man writhing on the ground, lit up by the street lanterns.

Not just any older man, Mr. Buford. He was a carpenter. I’d worked on his back, healed the tendonitis in his wrists, repaired the joints in his knee. He was a quiet man but kind.

My stomach flips when King Sandor and Tamish, the king’s hand, come into view. Tamish has his palm raised and a sadistic, gleeful look on his face.

“I’m quite certain that you are aware of the law.” He drops his hand and the man stills. “Anyone born and blessed with power from the Gods is required to serve the King.”

“I have no power.” Mr. Buford croaks, pushing himself to his knees.

“I don’t have an affinity for liars.” Tamish sneers. “You waste the King’s time.”

King Sandor calmly glances sideways to the guard next to him, I think his name is Adriel. He nods, stepping forward, and raises a palm.

Mr. Buford turns rigid before twisting and turning in on himself. A choking noise is thrust from his throat, echoing down the street. Water begins to pour from his mouth, leak out his ears; it seeps from his palms and puddles around his bent knees.

“Water ability, interesting,” drawls the King as Mr. Buford grabs at his neck, fighting for an inhale, but the water keeps flowing. I hold my own breath as I watch, grasping the worn stone under my fingertips hard enough to crack my nails.

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