Page 5 of Runaway Magic
Two walls were lined with windows that looked out into complete darkness, and the other two were brick and unadorned. On either side of the bed were industrial shelvesneatly arrayed with guns, ammunition, grenades, and other lethal-looking items he had no name for.
He probably should have been frightened or appalled by his circumstances, but the simple room felt honest to him. The plush décor of his own bedroom had always suffocated him, but this felt safe.
He shook his head at the fanciful thought. It was time to interact with his host so he could dispel the illusion of safety his mind kept taunting him with.
Across from the bed, the stranger sat perched on the edge of a small desk in front of a window. A battered, bronze clip-lamp illuminated a strong, European brow furrowed over storm-gray eyes that focused on him with an intensity that brought heat to his cheeks.
The Boy fought the urge to shrink back from the intense regard. Instead, he stuck out his chin and asked, “Why am I here?”
The stranger’s gaze didn’t waver as he answered. “No one knows about this place, and it doesn’t have many neighbors. We should be safe here.”
The Boy felt as though the man expected him to do something and didn’t want to miss it. Was he waiting for him to try to escape?
The Boy sat up and asked, “Am I your prisoner?” He might as well start with the basics.
“You can leave if you want.”
Good. That cleared that up. The unflinching regard made him feel awkward, but awkward he could do—anything was better than the unprovoked violence he was used to.
“Why did you follow me?”
“Gut instinct. Other than that…” The man shrugged, and the black leather of his jacket creaked with the movement.
The Boy pulled his legs against his body and hugged them. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you did, but you didn’t have to. I wasn’t asking for your help.”
“If you had, I probably wouldn’t have helped.” A minute crease formed between the man’s eyebrows before smoothing away.
Silence filled the air. “You shot my cousin,” he said, trying to fill the void.
“The guy in the floating circle?” A brief smile escaped the man, lending a brief hint of warmth to his previously expressionless face. “I’m pretty sure he had that coming.”
The Boy glanced at the man’s eyes, pleasantly surprised by his levity, but saw no humor there. “It wasn’t a complaint. I’m just trying to process what happened.”
“You and me both, kid.” The stranger sat back but didn’t break eye contact.
The Boy’s eyes darted away, intimidated by the scrutiny, and fell silent as he tried to figure out what the hell he was going to do next. What was he supposed to do with this guy?
If The Boy left, would he follow him again? Would it be a bad thing if he did? He wasn’t acting like anyone The Boy had ever interacted with—most people couldn’t wait to get away from him. Was it because the stranger was a norm?
The Boy had kept all contact with norms as minimal as possible. And, for the most part, they hadn’t been too keen about him either. The last time he’d stood in the checkout line at a store, one by one, everyone had gotten out of line, as though standing near him was physically uncomfortable. The guy behind the counter had avoided eye contact with him and threw his change down so he didn’t have to touch him.
Finding out more about his new companion—the only person who seemed unaffected by his power—was tempting. The Boy hesitated but ultimately decided that bringing an innocentperson—a norm, no less—in on his problem would be a crummy way to repay him for helping. Well, maybe not entirely innocent. The small armory surrounding them proved otherwise.
The Boy’s stomach growled painfully.
“Here.” The man threw a bag of trail mix onto the bed. “You need to eat more than you have been. When I carried you up here, you weighed less than my equipment bag.”
He cared that The Boy ate enough? What was he supposed to do with that?
“It’s probably why you passed out.” The man motioned for him to eat.
The Boy tore open the bag with too much gusto, and it fell apart, showering the bed with food. “I deduced that for myself, Sherlock.” Apparently, he was going to be an asshole.
Instead of being offended, the man gave another tiny smile that melted away as soon as it appeared. “What’s your name, kid?”
With shaky hands, he did his best to herd all the trail mix into a single pile on the blanket. “Name?” He thought he had a name once. Not wanting the man to call him The Boy like everyone else he knew, he dug into the parts of his memory he’d rather not access in an attempt to remember something… anything.
After a moment he came up with, “Cym?”
