Covens and Proxies

4

It's been three weeks since the Toby incident, and I'm starting to question if it really was a dream. Well, I was. Zemra is taking a double shift tonight, so I'm spending the evening curled on my couch, flipping through shows and movies. Until a load crash echos through the empty house.

I nearly jump out of my skin before ripping my blanket off and running for my bedroom. Throwing the door free, I see a staggering form of Ticci Toby in my room. He slams into my dresser, steadying himself. He looks up, a sort of crazed look in his eyes. It's not the first time I've seen such a look.

"Toby?" I murmur, walking closer with caution.

His eyes land on me. I freeze, watching him slowly calm down with patience. When he nods, I close the ten foot distance in three strides.

He may be my would-be-killer, but he's still a human that needs help.

Looking him over, I spot a dark wet spot in his shoulder. I clap a hand over my mouth, smothering my chocked shriek as I attempt to settle my heart down. "Is that your blood?!" I gasp, looking back up to his face.

He looks down to his wound and up to me. "N-o?" He asks.

"That's not a question you answer with a question! Sit down!" I snap, pointing to the floor next to my bed. I'd rather not get my sheets bloody. He flops down, sighing in relief. After turning the lights on, I sit on my knees next to him, trying to think clearly about what to do. "Can you... Get your jacket and shirt off?" I ask, swallowing your fear.

He chuckles. "Why don't you take it off yourself?" He snarls.

"Because you need me to heal that and unless you do this small thing yourself, you're not getting fixed." I reason patiently.

He laughs again, shedding his clothes. Bile rises in my throat when I see the bullet hole. A clean shot, straight through the other side.

"I don't know, T-toby... I've never fixed anything like this. I don't even know how it should look normally, I mean-" I'm silenced by his gloved hand clamped firmly over my mouth.

"I can't fe-feel pain, but I am being drained of blood. I g-ot this wound an hour ago. Don't le-let me pass out." He growls, daring for me to object.

I nod. When he lets his hand up, I shake my hands out before putting one on each end of the hole. Swallowing my bile again, I close my eyes and begin to chant the vaguely familiar spell. Warmth floods my entire arms as I push my energy into his flesh, focusing on the image of the hole closing. My arms start shaking, my head gets fuzzy, but I push. I push the last ounce of power I have into the wound until I feel as though I may be floating for a moment. When I sense the damage is undone, I relax.

I fall back, unable to lift my fingers. I hear rustling before Toby grunts in approval. "Nice j-job. I don't think Ann's ever been so ge-gentle." He remarks. I listen to him redress, my senses becoming more and more clouded as I let myself drift into unconsciousness. "Hey. Wake up!" He snaps, jolting my eyes half-way open. "What's wrong?"

I mutter something in Latin; I'm too dazed to even switch to English. I'm drained.

"What?" He asks, lifting me by my shoulders.

"I'm drained." I murmur, a little louder.

He shakes his head before hefting me onto my bed. "I'll wake you up-up in a half an hour wi-with some fucking food." He growls before leaving.

~

True to his word, I drift back from the land beyond dreams with Toby standing over me, a plate in hand. "Mor-morning." He offers, helping me sit up and handing me the plate.

Looking down, I realize he's cooked waffles. It makes me smile. "Thanks." I reply, stopping when I realize I barely understood what I had said. I clear my throat and try again. "Thank you."

He sits down on the floor. "Sure. Why'd yo-you pass out, and start speaki-ing Greek?" He asks.

"Latin, I think. I've never fixed anything bigger then a bruised hip or scraped knee. It was too much." I guess, taking a bite of the food. I'm still tired, as though I've spent ten hours at school before going to a construction site and lifting five steal beams, but the waffles make it a little better. "This is good." Is all I get out before I realize that being so tired also means I'm starving.

He laughs as I practically inhale the food. When I'm done, he takes the plate and sets it by the door. "I'll ta-take care of that in a minute. I-I have some questions, and not much time." He tells me.

With a full stomach, I feel slightly slow, but I nod. "What do you want to know?"

"D-do you have a place to practice?" He starts.

I try to think. When I was a child, my mother encouraged me to practice in the backyard before and after school. My father had hated it all, but he never objected. I essentially stopped when I started college, only occasionally jinxing a bully or healing paper cuts and migraines. I could use my small backyard, but the neighbors are relatively close and my roommate is home at night and most of the afternoon, so my time would be limited.

I shake my head. "I can't think of anywhere."

He nods. "There's a war-warehouse not too far from hear a f-riend uses. Stay out of there at night an-and on the weekends, but otherw-wise he never goes." He demands. I file the information away, deciding to investigate tomorrow. "Practice healing until you ca-can close a hole two inches deep with-out much fatigue."

I look at him as if he's insane, which he most likely is. "How?!"

He thinks a minute. "Either fi-find a subject or use your own bo-dy." He shrugs.

I look down at my hands. "Where is it?" I might as well except this, because if I don't Zemra could be horribly hurt or worse.

"Two blocks down. Turn on Quince La-lane and go straight. You'll know it-it when you see it." He instructs.

"Anything else?" I ask, hoping he'll just leave so I can have some hours to myself before Zemra comes home.

"Yeah. How are yo-you so calm?" He slams the head of the nail with a sledgehammer.

I'm a little surprised by the question, but it makes me question myself. Why am I so calm? Maybe it's the shock of everything, although stranger things have happened. That could be it. A memory is tugged to the surface of my mind.

"When I was very little, maybe five years old, my family found out I was a witch. It wasn't an easy discovery, but my mom tried to train me for a while. My parents were having an argument. It was... Maybe eleven thirty. I woke up to my mother crying. Dad was screaming something about fire and being caught. I think I mostly just wanted them to stop when it happened. It got so quiet. Mom came in. She started packing everything that would fit in her purse and our backpacks. We left five minutes later. All I saw of my father was a mass of skin and hair on the ground. I was eight." I tell him the first and only story I'm willing to give up.

He's silent for a little while. "You ki-lled him. When you were eight?" He sounds like he's struggling to smother laughter. I look at him, noticing he's shaking. He is stifling laughter. "No wonder y-you don't wa-want to-to ki-ill!" He breaks down, practically crying.

I look at him with a cold glare, wondering if a small jinx would shut him up. Deciding against it, I wait patiently for him to get himself together.

"S-orry, but you've had the yo-youngest kill of anyone I-I've known." He manages between ticks and gasps for air.

"Yeah, well I'm not proud of it." I mutter, looking out my window. My heart nearly explodes when someone walks past. I relax again when I recognize the person, only to tense when I realize who it is. "You need to go." I whisper, slowly getting out of bed and shutting my blinds. "Now."

He stands up, looking around. "Why?"

"I have a guest. So please leave." I hope he can't hear the concern in my voice.

He watches me closely. I match his gave evenly, pushing as much ice into my eyes as possible. He nods and heads for the front door.