Failing Upward

Chapter 9 (part 2): In a Rose Garden

"Don't ever ask me for directions ever again," I bit back. He laughed and held his side. I guess he wasn't one of the select few.

"And I'll also give you this advice: Don't go into any other doors without knowing what you're entering. My society isn't the only organization that has an interest in you. Be thankful all I did was cut you up a bit. It could be worse...you could be at the mercy of men who would cut you apart piece by piece and put you back together just because they can." He moved to the edge of the bed, closer to me. "You don't understand yet what you are—what you are capable of. What you can do . Each time you heal, you heal faster. I'm right. I see it in your eyes. You have scars now. Soon you won't even have those. You have an inner strength, but your bravado doesn't fool me in the least. You are terrified deep down, yet you still came." He paused. "Tread carefully."

I needed to take his advice. Leave this room. Get as far away from him as I could.

"I wonder...what about someone else? Could you heal them? Look what you did with Holmes last night. I bet you never had sex like that before in your life...and what did he see? I asked him. He wouldn't tell me. But what he didn't say told me more. What else can you do? Other people want to know. People more powerful and dangerous than you could ever fathom. For example, it would have been more serious in that parking lot if I hadn't been there to take the bullet."

Sherlock. My stomach clenched.

"He shot at Sherlock to see if I'd heal him?" Bile crept into my mouth. Sherlock's life was almost forfeited for a fucking test?

"I must say that I was curious what the outcome would be," he said, "but it's too soon. Even if you could heal someone else at some point, I don't think you could yet. You're not up to your full potential. I may be a killer, but I don't kill wastefully, and although your boyfriend is a fucking shit, he's still easy on the eyes. And he's clever. He could be useful."

"I don't understand any of this," I said. "I'm nobody."

"You understand," he said. "You just haven't realized. Take my hand," he ordered. He held his hand out to me. What could he possibly do to me in this room that's any more horrible than what's been done to me already? I haltingly grasped his hand.

"What do you feel?" he asked.

A surge of tingles and points of light filtered through me. I was infused with thoughts and images and textures and tastes that weren't my own.

"You want me to...take you...somewhere. I see the place. I know it," I said. Images mingled to an inner calm. I let go of his hand. "You won't hurt me. Not today."

"Very good," he said. "I was right about you." He stood up. He was much taller than me. Not thin nor muscular, but his body radiated a fierce energy, jolting my senses. I reeled back, and I was getting this without even touching his hand.

"Interesting. Sensitive still afterwards, too. Shall we?"

"I'll take you to Lestrade's then," I said a bit shaken but sure.

We walked right out of the hospital. No signing insurance or release forms. No wheelchair. Just walked out. The calm I'd felt was replaced with uncertainty—my heart palpitated irregularly, mimicking my feet's hesitant gate. Walking to the van, I was scared shitless, but I didn't let the fucker see it.

Two steps behind, the clomp of his hard hollow steps vibrated up through my legs. I didn't look back. Didn't have to—his energy seethed into me like I was some kind of cosmic sponge.

Eye of the storm. That was what it was like in the van when we both ducked in. The hairs on my body standing up, electrical charges zapped me; the air ionized.