3. The Boy

Chapter 3

The Boy

W hen The Boy opened his eyes, he was facing an unfamiliar wall. He could see a heavily chipped, ancient porcelain sink with exposed piping underneath that was more rust than it was metal. Normally, waking up in an unfamiliar room would be cause for alarm, but the shabbiness of the room let him know his family didn't have him. If they had, he either would have woken up in the suffocating luxury of his bedroom back home, or he wouldn't have woken up at all.

Closing his eyes again, he listened to see if he was alone in the room. He couldn't be sure, because even though he didn't hear anything, it felt like he wasn't alone.

With effort, he managed to get his mind to cough up a memory of the strange man from last night. He'd only gotten fleeting impressions of the man in the gloom and chaos of the night, but the feeling he inspired in The Boy's gut was concrete.

Safe.

From the day he'd been stuffed into his gilded cage, to the moment he'd found himself running into a gunfight, safety had been as mythical to him as Santa Claus. The fact that his gut had decided to feel safe in the middle of a shootout next to a stranger told him that he needed his head examined.

He wasn't even sure he knew what the stranger looked like. It had been too dark to know for sure.

He did know one thing. The man had shown no signs of the fiery anger The Boy was used to inspiring in others. Instead of coldly ignoring him or yelling at him or, even worse, attacking him like The Boy had grown accustomed to, the man had actually tried to help him. Twice.

Being close to him in the abandoned house had been intriguing. The gentle buzz of the man's aura rubbing against his own had intensified his sense of safety, and—exhausted as he'd been—it had been tempting to stay with him.

But he couldn't; he had needed to get away from the stranger. In his experience, there was no such thing as a safe person. If by some small chance of fate, the stranger was safe, The Boy didn't want to bring the wrath of his family down on him. As capable as the man seemed, he wasn't prepared for that. Even with The Boy's untrained senses, he could tell the man was just a norm.

So The Boy had left him, intending to blend in with the crowd, but his growling stomach overrode his better judgment. Instead of taking a more populated route that would have taken him an hour to traverse, he'd chosen a shortcut that would get him to his last stash of supplies quickly.

His body had been shouting at him, using every available method to convince him it needed the contents of that backpack ASAP, and it had convinced him that as soon as he got a granola bar inside his belly and shoes on his feet, he would be able to think his way to freedom.

The fifty-dollar bill he remembered putting in there wouldn't hurt his chances of escape either. And, of course, a change of clothes. He needed that the most.

That lapse in judgment had cost him, and now it would cost the stranger, too.

What he didn't understand was why the stranger had followed him and saved him again. How had the man survived the spell Astin had thrown at him? The insane amount of power his cousin had used should have destroyed the stranger instantly. Instead, the spell had merely hovered around him for a moment like a confused dog, looking for the ball its owner had only pretended to throw.

"I know you're awake." The low voice of his savior broke him from his reverie.

The Boy gave up all pretense of sleeping and rolled over to examine his surroundings. The bed under him was a futon kept off the floor by old pallets. When he shoved aside the army-green wool blanket, he noted with relief that he was still fully dressed. So often in the stories he read, for some weird reason, people felt compelled to undress someone after they passed out. It was good to know it wasn't a common practice in reality.

He wasn't ready to look at his savior yet—wasn't prepared to put on the mantle of boy on the run again, so he continued to inspect the spartan room to buy some time. It might have been an office or an apartment at some point in the distant past.

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 shelves neatly 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 innocent person—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?"

It wasn't quite right, but it sounded familiar.

"Are you telling me or asking me?" The man stood up slowly and came over to his side of the room. The way he walked reminded The Boy—no, he could call himself whatever he wanted now that he was free—Cym of a swimmer getting accustomed to the temperature of the water before diving in.

Cym didn't respond to the question but instead began stuffing his mouth with food. His hands trembled, so he kept dropping bits of fruit and nuts in every direction.

The man kneeled beside him, and his deep voice was soft when he asked, "What did they do to you?"

It wasn't a question Cym knew how to answer, so he kept eating as fast as he could. The more fuel he had in his body, the sooner he could get out of there.

He couldn't seem to stop himself from stealing looks at the man in between bites. Now that he had the time to process the information, Cym was a little awestruck by his appearance.

The man's mahogany-colored hair was trimmed neatly on the sides, but the top was longer and was an artful mess. It looked as soft and thick as fur, and Cym had to stop himself from reaching out to touch it. His eyes traveled over cheekbones and a jawline that would have made the models in the handful of fashion magazines he'd read green with envy. It was getting harder to summon the will to leave this stranger behind.

The man lifted his hand toward Cym's face but stopped it inches away—hovering like it had been caught in a force field. "Do you want to be called Cym?"

It was as close as Cym was going to get to his name right now, so he nodded. "What about you? What's your name?"

The man pulled his hand away and settled back on his heels. "You can call me Fourteen."

"Fourteen? Like soldier number fourteen? How many of you are there?" It was just like that book he'd read a few years ago. Well, half of a book—he'd known he shouldn't have bothered to read something that was missing the last half, but he'd been bored. Maybe sometimes books were like real life after all. He'd had no idea soldiers actually got numbers instead of names.

Fourteen shook his head. "You're better off not knowing how many of us there are, or anything about us. If you need to call me something, just use Fourteen." His face could have been stone—there was no emotion there for Cym to read, and he found it reassuring. If Fourteen hadn't exploded in rage yet, it was possible he wasn't likely to.

Usually, people had an immediate reaction to Cym. The few times he hadn't made a person blow up into a towering rage or be incredibly unpleasant to him, he'd found they tolerated having a conversation with him. They always seemed uncomfortable, though. Nothing like the nonreactive nature of Fourteen.

What was different about him?

Cym had to leave before he decided not to.

"I need to keep moving." Cym scooted over to the side of the bed not blocked by Fourteen and hung his legs over the edge.

With the speed of an exhausted sloth, he stood up and found that—while his legs would hold him—putting weight on his feet was excruciating. Rest and food had allowed him to be vertical. He'd just have to deal with the pain.

"Your feet are going to need some attention before you go." Fourteen said and reached over to take a small box down from a shelf. He opened it and began pulling out gauze, tweezers, and alcohol. Placing them on the bed three inches from Cym's hand, he asked, "Do you want to take care of it yourself?"

Cym's face drained of blood, and he sat back down on the bed, making an audible thump—his vision had gone gray and sparkly around the edges.

He couldn't even force his mind to think about digging chunks of road out of his feet, let alone actually do it. He didn't have much experience with injuries, mostly because he hadn't had much opportunity to get any up until now.

"Maybe later." Cym's voice was pathetic and breathy.

"Later would be a bad idea in this situation. You were walking around in garbage. You need to clean your wounds before they go septic."

"That doesn't sound ideal." After peering at his feet, Cym had to lie back on the pillow. This time, his vision had gone entirely gray and full of sparkles.

"Stay like that. I'll do it." Since meeting in the alley, Fourteen's voice had remained calm and matter-of-fact—almost robotic—but now it sounded a little frayed at the edges. Cym was pretty sure the man didn't want to fix his feet, but since he was insisting, Cym was going to let him do it.

"I'll just lie back and think of King and country." Cym's joke fell flat even to his own ears. Running for his life, being forced to rely on the help of a complete stranger, and getting his feet thoroughly abused were not the items he'd had on his to-do list this evening—though by his guess it had to be early morning now.

When he entered his microscopic efficiency apartment earlier, he'd planned on lying down and sleeping off the past several days. Cym had been running nonstop for almost three weeks, and this had been the first time he'd gotten an actual bed to sleep in. What he'd thought to be a safe haven had become a nightmare.

Cym watched Fourteen, so he would know exactly when the man would begin torturing his feet.

Fourteen pulled a few more things off the shelf and sat at the foot of the bed. "You don't have to be afraid." Fourteen showed him an aerosol can. "This will numb most of the pain."

Nodding, he tried to put on a brave face, but he knew his wide stretched, fear-filled eyes must have given him away.

"This might be easier on you if you don't watch," Fourteen advised. When Cym continued to focus on the can, he shrugged, as if to say, Suit yourself .

The mist from the can coated Cym's feet with blissful numbness, and his nervousness ratcheted down to a more tolerable level. Before he could do more than sigh in relief, Fourteen pulled out the tweezers, causing the nervousness from before to blossom into full-blown panic. Desperate for a distraction, he asked, "What was your name before it was Fourteen?"

"I can't tell you that." Fourteen had yet to touch Cym's feet in any way. In fact, he appeared to hesitate for some reason. "I don't tell anyone my name."

"Why not? Would you have to kill me if I knew?" Cym couldn't imagine he was squeamish about blood, so it had to be another reason Fourteen didn't want to touch him.

Fourteen gifted Cym with another brief smile. "No." He closed his eyes for a moment, opened them, and then placed his hand on the top of Cym's left foot slowly, reverently.

His calloused hand was so warm it radiated up Cym's leg, right to the center of his body. Cym started in surprise, but Fourteen didn't notice. Instead, he tightened his grip a little, eyes gone distant. The warmth intensified as it reached Cym's chest, doubling, then tripling, and his heart sped up.

After the span of several heartbeats, Fourteen's eyes cleared, and he pulled Cym's foot into his lap, inspecting it carefully. "I was recruited when I was fourteen." His attention was focused entirely on what he was doing, but his voice was soft.

Cym wondered at the shift—Fourteen sounded almost normal.

"They don't usually take people that young, but I was a special case. My age stood out among the others during training, so I got the nickname Fourteen. It stuck."

When Fourteen started using the dreaded tweezers on Cym's heel, he only felt pressure, no pain. "Why don't you tell people your real name?" Cym knew he should stop badgering the man, but there was something inside him urging him on and telling him it was important that he ask.

Fourteen dug out three more pieces of road trash from Cym's foot before answering. "Because they can't have that." His voice was so harsh it made Cym's throat hurt in sympathy. When he caught sight of the man's eyes, they burned into his own with an intensity that should have sent Cym scrambling off the bed, but he held firm. Cym needed to hear what he had to say as badly as Fourteen needed to say it. "I hid it away because it's the only thing I have left of her."

"Who?" It was barely a whisper. Cym's chest was so warm he was surprised it wasn't glowing.

"My mother." Fourteen's voice was so quiet that, if Cym hadn't been listening closely, he would have missed it. "My mother named me, and it's all I have left of her." Fourteen's pupils had dilated to the point that his eyes appeared black, and his breath was ragged. "I can't remember her. I can't remember anything about myself. They took that from me. They took everything."

Breaking away from Fourteen's gaze had ceased to be an option as they sat there, eyes locked on one another. Cym felt as though he'd been staring into Fourteen's eyes for days, learning secrets about the man even he himself didn't know.

Fourteen continued, "Except my name. Before they took that too, I hid it away, deep inside. I never think about it. Ever. They can't take what they don't know about."

Cym had forgotten about his feet entirely. The cool and collected man who had shuffled them from crisis to crisis all night had cracked open and shown Cym that, on the inside, he was burning alive.

Cym's hand found its way to Fourteen's leg in a silent gesture of comfort, and he gave the man an awkward pat before snatching back. Whatever had been driving Cym's words had wandered off, leaving him with no idea of what to say next.

Fourteen gave Cym an almost smile, and something about it made Cym's heart ache. "I hid it too well because even I don't know it now. I can feel it though, like a spark inside my chest. If I wanted it, I believe I could have it again." Faint lines creased the corners of Fourteen's eyes, and the purple shadows underneath drew Cym's attention to how tired he looked.

How old was Fourteen? A job like his would age a person quickly, so he could be younger than the thirty-ish man he seemed to be.

Fourteen closed his eyes, breaking contact. Cym noticed Fourteen's aura no longer had the pleasant buzz from when they first met, and it made him feel restless and confused. Cym's hand reached out and stroked the air next to the man, and it was like touching a tangible thing. He smoothed it down on reflex, like he was petting an anxious animal, and was pleased to note Fourteen's aura smoothed out as well.

Fourteen's eyes popped open, empty of all emotion once more, and he continued working on Cym in silence as though nothing important had happened, his hands gentle but efficient as he finished cleaning and wrapping his feet. Fourteen left both hands on Cym's feet once he was done, as if as hesitant to let go as he had been to start. Finally, he took his hands away and began tucking the supplies into a backpack he pulled out from the bottom shelf.

Without his touch, the feeling in Cym's chest dissipated. What had just happened? Such an emotional experience should have left them both feeling raw, but he felt calm, like he was surrounded in a warm, pink cloud.

He watched Fourteen move around the room, continuing to load the backpack with a random assortment of items, seemingly unaffected by the strange incident that had just occurred. Maybe, as a norm, he hadn't noticed? Magic didn't always affect them the same way it did the magical community.

"Thank you." Cym wiggled his toes experimentally. "My feet feel much better now." Whatever his magic was up to now, he didn't have time to investigate further. "I guess I'll be on my way."

Fourteen zipped up the backpack and slung it over one shoulder, then he walked over to the door and picked up his equipment bag as well. "Where to next?" It was obvious he was planning on going with Cym.

Maybe this would be harder than he thought. "I need to go alone. You'll only get caught up in something you aren't prepared to deal with." Cym bit his lip and readied himself for an argument.

Fourteen studied him for a moment, his expression calm. "I adapt quickly to new situations. Until tonight, I didn't know people routinely hang out inside floating holes trying to kill kids. I think I managed well enough."

"I'm not a kid."

"Sure."

"Whatever," Cym said in irritation. "Next time they'll send more than my cousin Astin after me."

"Which is why you should take me with you."

"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 into solving 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."