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“No.”

“Any neurological damage?”

“No.”

“Any physical or mental disabilities?”

“None that we’re currently aware of.”

“Is he an anomaly?” Is he like me?

Silence.

“Are you sure?”

“We had three different soul-readers come and check what his power was. There is no mistake.”

My lips and voice moved against my will, saying, “You of all people should know how painful it is for an anomaly to receive the love of their parents and brothers.”

“I know.” Yareth looked down at the table, his eyes concentrated on the enclosed tome before him.

Maybe it was because the conversation was hitting too close to home and I was no longer desensitized enough to separate myself from the equation. Or maybe it was a desire to hold onto resentment for my old friend rather than succumb to the pangs of empathy. Whatever the reason, I asked Yareth, “What exactly was the crime you committed?”

“Why are you here, Blood Manipulator?”

“It’s The Incomplete,” I corrected out of habit more than anything else. “And to answer your question: I’m here to see you.”

“But why?”

It was another deflection. Worse, Yareth was in one of his moods. Even if I tried to circle back to my original question, he would just find a way to return to his question and refuse to answer until I had answered him first.

“I need your bloody thumbprint,” I said.

“My what?” He relaxed his posture. “Are you seriously asking me to sign paperwork now.”

“Yes?”

“Have you lost your mind?”

“No…but just as there’s someone you want to save, there’s someone I want to see.”

“Someone you want to see?” Yareth echoed me.

“Yes, I really really want to see her so if you could, it’d help me a lot if you signed the paperwork.”

He threw his head back in laughter, his usually tamed curly hair flying every-which-way. “Never did I think I’d live to see the day when you’d be so attached.”

“You and everyone else are capable of forming emotional bonds. Why shouldn’t I also be able to do the same?” I grimaced at soreness of my tone.

When his laughter only became louder, I cooled down the temperature of his blood cells and slowed down their circulation until he glared at me. “I hate it when you do that.”

“Enough with the dramatics. I’ve answered your question and since you don’t want to respond to my request, at least answer my initial question: What is your crime and why do they call you a criminal?”

“My crime…” He held a hand against the back of his neck. “You shouldn’t ask things you won’t like the answer to.”

“That’s for me to decide. Not you, not anyone else. Just me.”

“And if I answer you, can you give me my freedom?”