I’m ushered into the room by Addie’s boss.

It’s a small room, only really fit for one person. I see a couch with a vintage floral pattern on it, covered over by plastic. There’s an armchair, similarly fashioned. The walls are a neat off-white, with several stock motivational quotes pinned to the one opposite the couch. I see a single bookshelf, with a mixture of herbology and field medicine texts. There’s a section, however, with old, dog-eared adventure novels. The covers are paper-back and faded, the spines barely legible from use.

The kitchenette is similarly neat. Minimal counter space, taken up by a single coffee maker and camp stove, with a kettle sitting on top of it. There is a miniature fridge off to one side, retro-style with magnets hanging up even more motivational quotes.

There is no television or computer. Low-tech living at its finest.

As I’m looking around the room, I catch pieces of the conversation in the doorway. The boss’s name is Zeke. He calls her Frac. They seem to have a pretty jovial relationship, all things considered. I wring my hands, and just to find something to do, I pick up one of the books and flip through it. Sketches of herbs look back at me, and I find notes in the margins, discussing what look to be dosage numbers. The handwriting is neat, a little bit floral—much like the rest of the living room.

The front door closes, and I hear Zeke let out a puff of air. I look up, blinking owlishly at him. He gives me a reassuring smile, calm as can be. At least, he looks calm on the surface.

“Uh, hi,” I begin, “My name’s Derek.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Derek, even if the circumstances are dire.”

There’s a brief pause between the two of us. I’m not exactly sure what to say; I’ve been brought into this man’s home without any introduction, just Addie’s word. And to be frank, considering our past, I’m not sure how much I should trust her word.

“We should start by getting you a change of clothes, huh?” Zeke says, “Get out of those nasty scrubs. Are you hungry?”

Why does everyone ask me that? “No, I ate before I left.”

“Alright, if you’re sure.” He bustles into one of the adjacent rooms. From the brief glance I manage, it looks like a bedroom, with a cot off to one side. The door closes, and I’m left alone to stand awkwardly in what feels like a therapist’s office. I put the herbology book back on the shelf and look toward the seats. It feels strange to sit down, but the exhaustion is slowly starting to settle into my bones, my mind feeling heavy.

Zeke comes back with a change of clothes, folded in uniform fashion in his hands. He offers them to me, and then nods to the other door. “Shower’s over that way. If you need anything, just let me know; I’m going to make some tea.”

“Thanks,” I respond. I take the offered change of clothes, and then head into the bathroom.

My eyesight has always been terrible.

Something about how my eyes developed due to the albinism. I’ve had coke-bottle glasses ever since I can remember. Some people say it’s cute, others say I look ridiculous, but it’s just my life. Same as the near-white hair on my head or the practically translucent skin on my body.

What’s also become a fact of my life is my Mark.

Every mage has one; it’s a defining feature. When their abilities manifest, they gain it, and it shows how much power they’ve used at a given time. For Addie, it’s her skeletal hands marked over her real ones. For me, it’s an imprint of my own heart, and the veins stretching outward from it. Even with my terrible eyesight, I can see the smudge of black over my chest, clear as day. A constant reminder of what power I have, and what happened the day I got it.

I pull on the shirt Zeke gave me. It’s a little bit big, but comfortable. I’m not sure where he got it from, but it’s well-taken-care-of. Not a single frayed hem or hole. I wipe the condensation off my glasses and put them on, opening the door to head back into the living room. Zeke’s already sitting in the armchair, a mug of hot tea in hand. He nods over to the counter, where I see another mug. I nod my thanks and grab it carefully, holding it close to my chest.

There’s a brief pause.

“No need to stand,” Zeke says, “Sit. I’ll disinfect the couch if needed, that’s what the plastic’s for.”

Periodically I pick up an accent in his voice, but I can’t quite place it. For the most part, he sounds just a little more on the side of formal, even more like I’m dealing with some sort of professional. Awkwardly, I sit on the couch. The plastic cover creaks under my weight, straining slightly against it. I blow on my tea and take a sip, then let out a sudden hum.

“Mm—This is good. What kind is it?” I ask.

“A mixture of chamomile and lemongrass,” he explains, “Good for anxiety and relaxation. I figured you’d need it; you’ve had quite the day, I assume.”

Something about his comment makes me let out a short, breathless laugh. “Yeah, you could say that.”

There’s a moment of silence between us, where we both sip our tea. It doesn’t feel as awkward as the silence between me and Addie, and nowhere near as tense. I feel comfortable with Zeke, and not for the first time do I wonder about him. Is he always this nice? Does he have any ulterior motive?

“So,” I say, breaking the silence, “What exactly do you and Addie do?”

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

He raises a brow at me with a humored expression. “Well, we offer care to the less fortunate.”

“What kind of care?”

“The medical kind,” Zeke explains, “My ability’s always been more suited for tending wounds, and when Frac came along asking for a job, I realized hers were, too. She may not always see it herself, but she’s got a knack for it. Even if her bedside manner needs a little work.”

“Wait. You’re a mage?” I tilt my head to one side, furrowing my brows.

“I am,” he answers, “Got my Mark when I was fifteen.” To emphasize, he shifts one of the sleeves of his sweater. I see his Mark, emblazoned on his wrist in the shape of wrapped bandages. He pulls his sleeve down.

“And you can heal people with it?” I add.

Zeke nods. “I speed up the natural healing process, but it takes energy, and it’s not a cure-all. Sometimes people come in sick as a dog, other times it’s a broken bone I can’t mend—that’s where Frac comes in—and so that’s what all those textbooks over there are for. In case there’s someone who needs help, and my power doesn’t do enough.”

I stare at him. He smiles back at me. There’s a beat of silence where we just look at each other, letting the explanation hang in the air between us. This guy’s a healer. He’s a good healer, too. A lot of hospitals would be lucky to have him, and yet he doesn’t capitalize on it. Less fortunate, he had said. Someone going against the grain and not asking for exorbitant hospital fees.

“That’s incredible,” I comment.

“Thank you. I do my best.”

There’s a brief pause, before he sits up a little straighter. Zeke pulls a phone from his pocket and texts something. A response comes back quickly, and he grins.

“What was that?” I ask.

“I was texting Frac, telling her she has the night off,” he answers, “But I also wanted to ask you: Are you a mage?”

“Yeah, but I’d rather not show off my Mark. Weird placement.”

“Fair enough. What can you do though?”

Here it comes. The part that I hate, the one that makes people apprehensive of me. “I, uh—I can control blood.”

Zeke gives me a long look, expression concerned for just a moment. I shift under his gaze, setting the mug aside to wring my hands together. My brows furrow and I glance toward the floor, frowning slightly.

“How much control do you have over it?” he asks. His voice is still in that measured, calm tone. It makes me relax slightly, and I look back up to him.

“A lot,” I answer, “I can, uh—move it. Make it harden and then ‘melt’ it again. There’s gotta be an open wound for me to pull it out of a person, but—”

“Say no more,” Zeke interjects, holding up a hand, “You don’t have to go into detail about it. But if anyone comes along needing help tonight, I think you’ll be able to lend a hand.”

I blink. “You do?”

“Of course. Sometimes emergencies come in where blood flow needs to be stemmed, or we need to keep someone’s heart pumping. I think you’ll do well in those areas.”

Something about what he says makes me feel shaky. I feel a tightness in my chest that I can’t seem to get rid of. I look down at my hands, scrutinizing them with renewed interest. Zeke thinks I can help people with my power. All I’ve known, all people seem to think, is that blood magic is only good for harm. That there’s nothing else I can do; I’ll just be harmful, a danger to anything with blood in its veins.

But Zeke sees something different.

“I never thought of it that way,” I say, quiet.

“Well, now you have,” he responds, “And I hope you’ll continue to think about it that way. Your hands are for more than just hurting; everyone’s hands are. Remember that and I think you’ll do a lot better for yourself.”

I stare at him. I’m still unsure what to make of this guy. Why does he seem to know so much about people?

“Thanks, Zeke.”

Nobody in need of a blood manipulator comes in that night. Zeke says that I go sleep on the cot while he ushers people through. It’s an uneasy sleep; I wake up several times, whether it’s from a nightmare or the noise of someone sick in the other room. The house is small, and cramped, and it makes me feel just a touch claustrophobic.

I also keep playing through what Zeke told me in my head.

Blood manipulation is a terrifying ability. Human beings are filled with blood, and if they lose enough of it, they just die. They can’t sustain themselves anymore, that’s just it. And ever since I got the ability, that was all people saw of me. Hell, it’s still what people see of me. I remember the worried glances of the Artura Family employees when I told them, how they took extra precautions with me in case I did something I wasn’t supposed to do.

I stare at the opposite wall of the cot, sunlight beginning to break through the singular window, and wonder if I really can do more than hurt people.

I’m dead exhausted by the time I get up in the morning.

Zeke looks as chipper as ever, frying eggs on the camp stove. I can hear the coffee pot brewing, and by the smell, it’s strong stuff. He’s humming a song. I can’t quite place the melody, but it sounds cheerful enough, and it puts me a little more at-ease.

“Was it eventful last night?” I ask.

“Just about as eventful as any night,” Zeke responds, “Did you sleep well?”

“Oh, like a baby.”

He gives me a look.

“Okay,” I amend, “Not like a baby.”

“That’s more like it,” he says, “I could hear you tossing and turning. You’re not as quiet as you think, Derek.”

I laugh sheepishly, pouring myself a cup of coffee. Zeke makes two plates of eggs, one for me and one for him, and tops it off with buttered toast. I nod my thanks and sit down with my breakfast, chowing down with renewed fervor and sipping the coffee every so often. It’s good, dare I say it better than diner food, and I wonder just how someone perfects something as simple as buttered toast.

He waits until I’ve eaten about half of my plate before he speaks up. “So, Artura Family, huh?”

It feels like my chest has suddenly constricted. I slowly sit up from the plate, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. Zeke looks at me with a quirked eyebrow, almost playful in his curiosity.

“Yeah,” I answer, “Artura Family.”

“What did they do?”

“I didn’t—”

“Not you. Them. What did they do?”

I blink. I hadn’t expected that, him placing the blame on them. Slowly, I shift in my seat, leaning back and letting out a long-winded sigh.

“How much do you know already?” I ask.

“Artura Family is like any other megacorporation,” Zeke says, waving his hand dismissively, “Seems like good news on the surface, but underneath, there’s always something questionable. They say progress, but I say lacking ethics.”

“So, you don’t trust them.”

“Of course I don’t.”

That makes me feel a little better, at least. I look down at my half-eaten plate of eggs and toast, and my stomach twists uncomfortably. Slowly, I push the plate aside on the coffee table. Maybe it can be reheated later.

“I think they’re researching the genetics of mages,” I explain, slowly, “For an experiment known as Godkind. But I have no idea what that means. It sounds shady as hell, and they’re documenting powers like crazy to boot. Whatever they’re planning, it’s nothing good. And I need proof.”

Zeke gives me a measured look, his expression neutral save for the interest in his eyes. I can see the gears turning in his head, the way his lips press into a thin line as he thinks for something to say. I don’t think he blinks even once by the time he opens his mouth to say something.

“Does Frac know about this?” he asks.

I pause to think for myself. Zeke definitely seems like a trustworthy person, but I can tell he knows more than he’s letting on about Artura Family. If I trust him too much, and then it turns out he’s working for them, then all of us are in trouble. He may not know Addie’s name, but he knows her face. He has contact information. And he may not have my full name either, but he knows my face. Hell, I’ve been taking up space in his house.

But Addie trusts him. Hell, she works for him, and I know she would be more likely to give me up than Zeke would. So if she trusts him… then maybe I should, too.

“She does,” I explain, “She was the first person I contacted when I got the information.”

“She hasn’t warmed up to you much,” he comments, “Why her?”

“Had no one else.”

“That took courage.”

I glance away. It did take courage for me to talk to Addie about this stuff. I was so terrified when I went up to the door that I wasn’t sure what I was going to do. A part of me had been concerned that my power would trigger, or that she would even just shut the door in my face. Another part of me just said to turn and run, never look back. Find someone else to talk to, anyone else, see what could be done without the possibility of getting hurt. But that possibility is never completely gone, is it?

“I’m in,” Zeke says, breaking the silence. I look up at him, eyes wide, and my mouth opens to protest. He raises a hand, and the words die in my throat.

“Not one word of complaint,” he commands, “I’m in. I’m not going to let good people potentially kill themselves trying to go against something as large as Artura. Not to mention the danger this could pose to the entire mage population, should they succeed in whatever Godkind is.”

“But you could get hurt, too. Badly, Zeke. I don’t want that for you, you’re too good here,” I finally manage.

“Trust me. I can handle myself just fine, with or without your assistance.”

He smiles at me, and once more I get the sense that he knows more than he’s letting on.

My mind wanders to the herbology books, and the dosage notes within them. How some of them had mention of lethal doses, how close those lethal doses are to the healthy ones. Which herbs are risky to use in medicine, which ones aren’t, how to tell the difference between poison and remedy. And I finally realize that maybe Zeke knows better than any of us how to survive in a cutthroat world.

“Alright,” I say, “But Frac won’t like it.”