Page 25 of Runaway Magic
“Let me check your head,” Fourteen said, dimly aware of the fog-like quality the world had taken on.
Cym nodded wearily but remained silent, allowing Fourteen to run gloved hands over his scalp without protest.
Fourteen took his time examining Cym and was pleased to see his eyes were tracking properly once more. Once Fourteen ascertained that Cym had managed to escape a serious concussion, he said, “It’ll hurt for a while, but you’ll live. Does anything else hurt?”
“No.” Cym kept his eyes on the ceiling.
Spying a box of instant icepacks, Fourteen stood to get one and had to pause when the room did a slow, lazy roll. Once the world had righted itself, he pulled out a pack and squeezed it to activate the chemical reaction. “You planning on running way again?”
Cym’s reply came out in a sigh so quiet Fourteen had to strain to hear it. “No.”
“Good.” He put the pack on Cym’s forehead, remembering to be gentle at the last second. A nurse he was not, but he’d gotten good at keeping himself alive over the years, and that was all that had mattered up to now.
“That’s it?” Cym’s blue eyes finally met Fourteen’s, incredulity etched on his face. “I got caught five minutes after ditching you, nearly got you killed—again—and that’s all you have to say about it?”
“You already know what you did was the stupidest thing anyone still living has ever done. What more do I need to add to it?” Fourteen’s fingers flexed and he fought off the urge to shake Cym. Apparently, Fourteen was still upset. Where was the cold when he needed it? He paced around the room to give him a safe way to vent some energy. “Why should I bother to point out that magic seems to roll off of me? Or that if they have tracking spells, they’re probably affected by me too? Any halfwayintelligent person would have thought of both of those things by now and realized I would be a valuable asset to them.” His voice was arctic—a direct contrast to how he felt inside.
Cym was openly gaping at him now.
“No? How about the fact that I’m the only thing keeping them from killing you, but you keep running away from me!” His tone had gone from frozen to volcanic between one heartbeat and the next.
Looking unimpressed by his anger, but instead rather intrigued, Cym mused, “The mystery-shield-thingy that kept all the spells off us. My aunt said it was you.” He sat up quickly, and the ice pack fell to his lap. His skin turned chalk-white, and he let out a strangled groan of pain.
Fourteen was back by his side in an instant, his fury gone. “You may only have a minor concussion, but you still need to take it easy.”
“I’m getting that.” Cym cradled his head in his hands and moaned softly. After a moment, he said, “So you think whatever is protecting you might also be keeping them from finding us?”
“Current data indicates it to be a possibility.”
“What about when we were in the cemetery and you kept acting strangely? Something was affecting you then. I meant to ask you about it, but?—”
“You ran away.”
“Yeah.” Cym dropped his hands, frowning slightly. “So what happened there? If you have a shield, how did they get you?”
“Um.” Fourteen didn’t have an excuse anymore; he was going to have to tell Cym about the effect he had on him. Just how Fourteen was supposed to do so currently eluded him.
Before Fourteen could try, Cym interrupted. “You’re a norm, though. How could you have a shield? What’s special about you?”
“As far as I can tell, I am perfectly normal.”
Cym laughed and then moaned again, clutching his head. “Even a shut-in could tell you’re special. Take it from me, I would know.” He released the protective hold on his head to pat Fourteen’s arm but snatched it away after minimal contact. “Sorry, I know you don’t want me to touch you.”
“About that…”
“Don’t worry about it, I get it,” Cym said quickly, as if trying to make Fourteen feel better about whatever misperceived issues he thought he had.
“No, I don’t think you do.” Fourteen noticed a trickle of blood run down Cym’s face. “I need to clean up your head wound.”
Searching, Cym’s hand found the blood, and he winced. “Sorry, I must be wrecking your sheets.”
“Heaven forbid that happen,” Fourteen said, rooting through the box he had used earlier when bandaging his feet.
Cym blinked at him and smiled. “You make jokes, too? I never would have guessed.”
“I don’t make a habit of it, but sometimes it comes out unexpectedly.”
“Like diarrhea?” Cym’s face turned the color of a boiled lobster. “I can’t believe I said that out loud.”
