Page 8 of Runaway Magic
“Why… why do you want to come? What’s in this for you? I don’t have any money. Well,” he amended as he thought of the fifty in his stash bag, “almost no money, but I’m going to need that to get out of here.”
For the first time, Cym saw a flash of real anger on Fourteen’s face, but it vanished as quickly as it came. The man’s voice was steady as he said, “I don’t need your money.”
“What do you want, then?”
Fourteen paused, but it wasn’t the way a normal person would do it. It was like watching a machine shut down non-essential functions in order to pour more of its resources intosolving a difficult problem. Cym struggled to read his non-expression but failed.
Maybe he wanted to kill Cym. Maybe he wanted breakfast. Only time would tell.
Finally, Fourteen said, “Information. I want to understand what happened last night, and the questions I have will take more than a few minutes to answer, so I’m coming with you.”
Cym bit his lip in indecision. Maybe Fourteen had noticed what just happened after all.
“If you don’t let me come, I’ll just follow you again. I do this for a living, so you won’t shake me.” Fourteen presented it like a fact proven too many times to count.
The cold confidence Fourteen exuded was hard to dispute. It couldn’t hurt to fill him in on what had been going on.
Fourteen might be a norm, but in his line of work, there was a chance he would run into the magical community again. Telling him what little Cym knew about his world would be a good way to repay Fourteen for his help. When he realized Cym didn’t know very much, most likely he would be happy to send him on his way. Hopefully, Cym could stay under his family’s radar until they parted ways.
Cym’s chin rose defiantly. “Okay, but I’m in charge.”
Chapter 4
Fourteen
As he followed the kid—Cym, he corrected himself—down the stairs leading from Fourteen’s apartment into the open space of the warehouse he owned, he kept a close eye on the kid’s gait, noting Cym no longer looked as vulnerable as a week-old kitten.
Cym didn’t appear to be limping, but then Fourteen wouldn’t have appeared so if he’d been damaged. Showing off weakness to a stranger was likely to get him killed, so he powered through minor injuries until they healed. Cym might not operate that way, but Fourteen wouldn’t discount it. If they had to run, Fourteen would be ready to carry him again if necessary, but it would be his last resort.
The first time he’d touched Cym had overloaded Fourteen’s senses. Carrying Cym to his SUV had been disorienting and difficult—he’d had to stop and put the guy down several times toregain his equilibrium. Otherwise, he couldn’t have guaranteed no one had followed them.
While working on the mess Cym had made of his feet, Fourteen had drifted in and out of lucidity. He remembered talking with the boy, but he couldn’t have told anyone what it had been about. It should have bothered him more than it did. Was he so used to what The Company had done to him that missing time was a normal thing?
Unexpected emotion roused itself, but not toward Cym. It started in his chest, hot, bright, and sharp. It raced through Fourteen’s body, making the tips of his fingers tingle and his face burn. After being trapped so long in the cold of his mind, the heat of emotion was a shock to his system. It was all-consuming and powerful—but so was the cold. In seconds, his conditioning kicked in and swallowed the feeling, assimilating it into nothingness.
What the?—?
The hole in his mind throbbed, fighting for Fourteen’s attention. Did the feeling have something to do with The Company and their tinkering?
Again, the feeling flared in his chest, and again, his conditioning swallowed it down. It seemed like it took longer the second time, giving him a chance to give it a name.
Rage.
Something about being with Cym or, more specifically, touching him, called out to something important Fourteen had lost. Fourteen wasn’t sure he wanted his conditioning to win.
“Who are you?” Fourteen kept his tone quiet, but it still caused Cym to flinch.
“Starting with the hard stuff first, huh?” Cym paused on the stairs and looked back at him.
“It wastes less time,” Fourteen said pointedly.
“Fine.” Fishing around in his pockets, Cym pulled out a hair tie, gathered his hair into a messy knot, and continued his descent. Several shorter strands escaped imprisonment to frame his pale face. “I’m a less-than popular-member of the Blaike family—a fusty but prominent family of witches in the magical community, or as we call it, the Other.” He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and turned to face Fourteen, clearly waiting for something.
“And?”
“I’m waiting for you to tell me I’m crazy.” Cym pulled his hood up to cover his hair. Fourteen nodded at the precaution in approval, Cym’s hair was an unusual shade and likely to draw attention.
“And I’m waiting for you to answer my question. When you finish telling your story, I’ll draw my own conclusions.”
