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With a sigh, I grip the windowsill and look down at my hands, knowing there is one option open to me, though it’s not one I want to use unless absolutely necessary. I’ve messed up a huge number of times in my life—my mother would be rolling in her grave—but there is one thing I haven’t done. One promise I have never broken. Thinking about doing so now makes me feel physically ill.
Healing is what I do. It’s a part of my DNA. Despite people’s opinions, it has nothing to do with witchcraft or being demon-touched. There is something unique about my DNA that lets me manipulate the energy inside me and use it in ways others would deem impossible.
But I learned early on that nothing is impossible. And I’m not alone. Once, when I was about seven or eight, we crossed paths with a man in his early twenties named Penn Travis, who my mother referred to as an empath. He had been born with the gift of reading people’s emotions. As he spent time with us, he taught me something that, to this day, I’m not sure is a blessing or a curse.
Reading emotions was second nature to him, but after years of persecution for having a gift that was, at best, a defensive gift, he decided to train himself to have an offensive gift as well. Being reactive meant always being at a disadvantage when people turned on him. And they always did because people are scared of anything different. Taking a more proactive approach meant he was ready with a weapon at the tip of his fingers. One that others never saw coming until it was too late.
Instead of just being able to read people’s emotions, Penn learned to manipulate them. When people meant him harm, he twisted their emotions until all they felt was terror. He incinerated people’s faith, confidence, and sense of self-worth into ashes and replaced them with insecurities and self-loathing. He made them second-guess everything they knew about themselves, and while they were dealing with their emotional meltdowns, he slipped away.
When my mother disappeared one afternoon to try and find some work, he taught me that almost all gifts can be used in a variety of ways as long as the wielder trained hard enough. It was difficult to take a skill that came as naturally as breathing and strip it all away and relearn everything all over again. It was like learning to talk after having a stroke. Still, I worked hard, not mentioning anything to my mother, instinctually knowing she would forbid me from doing it. Instead, I trained as often as I could, with little success, until I was thirteen.
I shiver as the memories assault me. I had just healed a little boy who had been suffering with a particularly brutal combo of bronchitis and pneumonia. I was stumbling home, knowing it wasn’t safe for me to rest anywhere I might be vulnerable. But I had misjudged how close to death the boy was, and in my weakened state, I was less vigilant about my surroundings than I should have been.
When a man grabbed me and dragged me into an alleyway, I was too weak to put up much of a fight. When his rough hands began yanking down my pants, my panic sparked a fire inside me. With nothing left to lose, I grabbed ahold of his wrist, and instead of sending warm, healing energy into him, I drew it out. I took everything I could without thought until my body hummed with power. The sickness I had been carrying healed in an instant, and somehow, I instinctively knew I’d be able to heal a dozen or more people before I collapsed.
When I realized the hands that had been holding me were no longer there, I spun around and froze. On the ground at my feet was what I can only describe as a withered shell of a man. His body was so emaciated that he looked like something an archaeologist would find in a tomb. Not knowing what to do, I ran. When I got home, I broke down and told my mother what had happened. She made me promise to never, ever tap into that side of my gift again. That night, we left town like we had done a hundred times before. The only difference this time was the fear in my mother’s eyes. Not fearforme, butofme.
I felt like she had punched me in the stomach. Honestly, that would have hurt less. After that day, our already strained relationship became even more fragile. She loved me. I know that. But by the time she died, I’m not sure she liked me that much.
My mother, though understanding why I did what I did, hadn’t been able to get past her horror of how I had taken a gift so pure and twisted it into something so dark. Part of me wondered if she thought I might become some crazy serial killer hopped up on everyone’s life force. It’s not like I couldn’t see where she was coming from. There was a part of me that felt invincible that day. Afterward was another story. It felt like fire ants crawled under my skin. I scratched until I bled, but the itching continued for days. My temperature spiked, and I couldn’t stop shaking. It was like having the flu and being set on fire at the same time.
Maybe if I practiced more over the years, that wouldn’t continue to happen. But I never took the life force from anyone since that fateful day—too scared of the person I could become if I did. Yet here I am, considering it. If it were just me, I wouldn’t. Hell, back in the cells, when people were paraded in front of me being raped and tortured, I did nothing, even though it ate me alive. The guilt made me sick to my stomach, but I knew I had to keep my secret. If having a healer gave these assholes a thrill, imagine what it would be like to have someone who could kill as easily as me.
But now there is Oz and Zig. The girl I was before they came along was fearful and wounded. Okay, I might still be that girl, but I won’t let that fear hold me back. Not when their lives are at stake. Having something worth living for makes me willing to fight to the death to keep it. Physically, I might not stand a chance against anyone here. Hell, as thin as I am, thanks to living in the jungle for months, I think even the elderly nurses could take me down. But mentally, I can do things only a superhero can. I just need a plan.
Hearing footsteps, I quickly make my way back to the bed and climb up onto it, pulling my legs up to my chest and laying my head against my knees. Right now, my size and obvious nervousness and fear are going to make me seem weak and easy to control. Hopefully, it will make them a lot less guarded around me.
When the door swings open, I lift my head and see a man walking toward me who looks like he should be guarding his famous blend of herbs and spices. He’s overweight, particularly around the stomach, making me think he likes to eat and drink excessively. The healer in me can already detect the strain on his heart from here and the elevated glucose levels in his system. This is not a healthy man, yet somehow I doubt he went to all this trouble to get to me just so I could lower his cholesterol.
Wearing a white short-sleeved shirt, white linen pants, and a white fedora, I can’t help but assume he gets others to do his dirty work because blood must be a bitch to get out of that outfit. I only have to think about wearing a white T-shirt, and I drop food on myself. He steps closer and looks at me with interest. His eyes move over my small frame before he stops at the end of the bed.
“Miss Harris. My name is David Stephens. It’s nice to meet you.”
He doesn’t offer me his hand, thankfully, so I just look at him and nod. I recognize his voice, though. This is the man who was in here earlier before getting called away.
“The doctors say that considering everything you’ve been through, you’re in remarkably good health. A little underweight, but that’s to be expected and easily remedied.”
He looks at me as if waiting for me to speak, but I’m not sure what he’s expecting me to say since a doctor hasn’t actually examined me yet. His jaw tenses for a moment before he walks around the edge of the bed and moves up beside me. Now it’s my turn to tense as I wait to see what his next move is.
“Rest up. We’ll be leaving in the morning.”
“Leaving? Where are we going?” I keep my voice just above a whisper, needing answers without raising suspicions.
“Somewhere safe, away from the cartel.”
“You work with Oz and Zig?” I ask, adding a hint of confusion to my voice, though I know he doesn’t work with them. Hell, I bet he hasn’t even met them.
“Yes, sometimes. But they are more of a freelance kind of team. They don’t always follow the rules, unfortunately. And as a result, people tend to get hurt.”
“They kept me alive,” I snap, wincing internally.Keep cool, dammit.
“Be that as it may, you wouldn’t have been in trouble if they hadn’t killed my men, who were waiting at the plane to escort you to safety.”
“They thought they were cartel members.”
“That is no excuse. Still, you are here now and, thankfully, in one piece. That is all that matters.”
“Will we all be flying back together? I thought they would be back to see me by now.”
