by Casey Hays
Nancy motions us to take the chairs in front of her desk and skirts around it to her seat. She straightens a stack of papers and folds her arms over each other. “So. Tell me about this project you’re working on.”
“Of course.”
Frankie drops her pack to the floor and unzips the outside pocket, producing the envelope full of pictures. My eyes dart to her face, but she doesn’t look at me, and I have a fleeting urge to kick her. But I clutch my bag and set my eyes on Nancy. This could go either way.
“I may not have been completely forthcoming about our assignment on the phone,” Frankie admits. Her fingers whiten where they grip the envelope, and I take in a deep breath and hold it. Nancy shifts her head slightly.
“How so?” she asks.
“First, it isn’t a history project, and secondly, we couldn’t care less about the antiquity of this building.”
Nancy’s expression fills with surprise. She falls back into her chair, props her elbows on the arms, and forms a little tent with her fingers. “I see.”
“We’re working on a science project for the scholarship fair that will be held the end of August. So the reason we’re really here… well…” She glances at me before forging on. “It’s because the subject of our research led us to some pictures. Of you.”
She withdraws the picture of the much younger nurse restraining the boy and places it flat in the middle of the desk. Nancy drops her eyes to examine it. Her face goes white, causing her short, dark hair to look that much darker.
“Where did you find this?” She snaps her gaze at me and shifts it to Frankie. “Did your father give you this picture?”
“No,” Frankie assures. “My father is above reproach. He would never cross the line of confidentiality. I, on the other hand, am desperate enough to leave my reproach at the door.”
Nancy lifts the picture and studies it. For a few seconds, all of us are dead silent. Frankie exchanges another shaky glance with me. She’s a little more nervous than she puts on; I see it in her eyes. When she can’t take the silence any longer, she leans her forearm on the edge of the desk, tapping her fingers a couple of times.
“Who is that boy?”
Nancy sighs with a shake of her head and drops her hand along with the photo into her lap. “Now Frankie, you know I can’t share that information. All patient files are confidential.”
“I understand.” She tries a different angle. “Can you at least tell me when he was here? How old he is in this picture?”
“I’m afraid I cannot.” She presses her lips together in a tight line. “It is my duty to maintain confidentiality. What you ask places my ethical responsibility in check.”
“I understand that as well,” Frankie agrees. “But, you see, we already know quite a bit about Ademov’s experiment. So in reality, you would only be validating our knowledge base.”
At that, Nancy’s mouth drops open. She swallows, blinking her brown eyes once. Frankie presses on.
“I believe the boy in question is indeed a Fireblood.”
“And—” Nancy straightens a bit, running her hands down her slacks as she works to keep her composure. “Why would you think this?”
“I think you know why,” Frankie says. She pulls the second picture from the envelope and slides it across the desk.
Let me just interject here and say I thought Ms. Nancy’s face turned white the first time. Wrong. She vaults to her feet, sending the rolling chair backwards into a full bookshelf. It rattles on impact. Her fingertips, pressed into her desk, turn as white as her face against her weight. She stares at the picture, unblinking.
“It’s the same boy, isn’t it?” Frankie regains her bold stance and pushes a little harder. “He’s a little older, but—”
“Yes,” Nancy cuts her off with a harsh whisper. “It’s the same boy.”
Her own answer catches her by surprise, and her eyes dart up to dash back and forth between Frankie and me. It’s clear she didn’t mean to confess it. In fact, I was placing my bets on pulling some very strained tidbits out of her before she realized what a true nuisance we were and kicked us out of the building. Or worse, called the cops. She takes a huge breath that emanates off the very sterile, white walls, finds her chair, and sits. She places her palms flat on either side of the picture, staring at it, her lower lip tucked in. A quick flick of her eyes, she nods at me.
“Would you please lock the door, Jude?”
I rise, snap the lock, and slink back into the chair. I’m sweating, and I mean a serious stream of sweat ripples parallel with my spine, plastering my shirt to my skin. Because here’s the deal: I don’t need anyone to prove this boy in the picture is a Fireblood. I don’t need his former nurse to validate it, and I certainly don’t need visual proof. What makes me feel like I’m swimming in a pool of my own perspiration is the sheer fact that someone else in this room knows without a shadow of a doubt that a Fireblood is not a myth. And if she’s about to do what I think she’s going to do, Frankie’s dream of proving it will soar.
Nancy Babbitt clenches her fists, unclenches them. “I have to admit, girls, this is the last thing I expected when you called me.”
“I apologize for misleading you,” Frankie says right on cue. I shoot her a look. I know when Frankie’s sorry. She isn’t.
Nancy rubs her forehead and leans back in her leather chair. It reclines slightly under her weight. “What exactly is the nature of your science project?”
“To prove the existence of the Vatra u Krvi.”
Nancy nods, a small smile lighting her lips. “So you’ve done your homework. Which means you’ve already proved your hypothesis in your own mind.”
“Technically, yes. Especially with these pictures. But we can’t use them in the exhibit for obvious reasons.” She perches on the very edge of her seat and tilts her frizzy head. “We can, however, include an anonymous interview from a trained professional who’s been in contact with one.”
Her tone is hopeful, and Nancy purses her lips, clearly impressed with Frankie’s clever approach. This only needles my own anxiety. I drag my bag up to cover my heart. It beats so vigorously, I’m pretty darn sure it’s going to burst through my chest cavity and splatter all over these perfectly clean walls. I can only hope Nancy continues to refuse to give out any information.
“Have you not asked your father your questions?” Nancy prods.
“I tried,” Frankie shrugs. “He refused to speak to me. He doesn’t know I’m here.”
“All the more reason for me to keep my mouth shut.”
“Ms. Babbitt—”
“Frankie, my hands are tied. I cannot share a patient’s information.”
My heartbeat slows as I listen to the back and forth banter. Maybe there’s nothing to worry about after all. If Nancy Babbitt won’t spill, then no harm done. We can leave here just as ignorant as we were when we arrived. I chew on the inside of my cheek, waiting for that turn of events.
“Let us at least ask you some questions. Please. You don’t have to answer anything that might violate confidentiality.” When Nancy doesn’t answer, Frankie presses. “Just general questions.”
Nancy holds very still, contemplating. She licks her lips.
“I trust you will use discretion with anything I choose to tell you.”
“The utmost discretion,” Frankie promises.
Okay, I was wrong, and my heart speeds up again. I should put a stop to this already, and the worst thoughts trample across my brain. Like… I wish Kane had compelled everything away. So what if it turned Frankie into a mindless zombie. She likes that kind of stuff. Okay… I’m kidding. I don’t want to fry Frankie’s brains. But I can tell you, there’s no stopping her now. Not when we have an eyewitness who’s willing to talk.
I promised her two weeks; it’s been one. She wins.
“I’ve carried this burden for a very long time.” Nancy picks up the photograph of the winged boy and holds it in her shaking hands. She clears her throat. “He was a tro
ubled little boy when he came here. Only two years old.”
Frankie retrieves a notebook from her backpack and flips it open. She poises her pen. “How long was he here?”
“Thirteen years. Five years ago, he was moved to another facility.”
Frankie’s pen scratches. I do the easy math in my head to calculate his current age.
“And his parents? Were they Firebloods?”
Nancy shakes her head. “No. I’m sure his natural parents must have been. He—” She hesitates a moment before finishing the sentence. “He was adopted.”
At her words, my mind flies out of the room and back to the manila envelope I left on my mother’s bed. The “A” word was the last thing I needed to hear, and a growl rumbles right around the edges of my heart. I feel a sudden kinship with this poor, little boy. I wonder if his parents told him the truth. I’m gonna say, based on his condition, it’s doubtful.
Frankie lays the notebook on her knees. “I came here in the summer a few times right after Dad took the position. He liked me to visit with the other children. I would have recalled seeing this boy.”
“You wouldn’t have seen him. For the same reason you don’t remember me.” She stands, takes two steps to a water cooler, and fills a cup. “He was kept in the D wing in solitary. Off-limits to everyone, including unauthorized staff.”
She takes a sip. I toy with a zipper on my bag. It’s so hot in here I feel like I’m melting. Frankie resumes her writing stance, but my mind blinks with the word “adoption” like a neon sign outside a trashy motel room, and I cut in before Frankie asks her next question.
“Did his parents tell you what he was?”
Nancy cocks her head and sits. “They didn’t know. And neither did we until he began to exhibit some odd behaviors.” Frankie writes furiously. “He was difficult from the onset, but over the next few years he became very violent.”
“How?” I ask.
She pauses, clearly debating with herself about how much she should divulge. Frankie waits, pen suspended over her notebook, and I wish I hadn’t asked. I also wish Nancy would just kick us out now. Because the more she talks, the less likely she’ll stop. Frankie has that way with people.
“He kicked,” she continues. “Screamed. Hurt himself. Banged his head against the brick walls of his cell. We installed pads; he ripped them to shreds with his bare hands.” She pauses, her mind going to some other place for a moment. “He was so strong.”
“What else?” Frankie interjects. “It’s clear he has wings, albeit deformed.”
“Yes,” Nancy nods. “The wings appeared around age four. Interestingly, they weren’t always visible.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sometimes, they just disappeared. As if they weren’t there at all. It was very strange.” She licks her lips, takes another sip of water, and sets the cup on the corner of her desk. “Around age five, they manifested for good.”
“Anything else?” Frankie prods. “What other characteristics manifested?”
Nancy wrings her hands, nervous. She flicks her eyes toward the lock on the door, double checking before she moves on.
“His eyes were his most pronounced feature. They were blue. Very dark. But sometimes, they would lighten. A blue fire. The color of a welding torch.”
This is getting too close for comfort. I shrink an inch lower. Frankie shakes her head in amazement.
“Wow. That’s fascinating.”
“It was,” Nancy nods. “Other times, his whole body would light up in the same way, and the heat of it was scalding. We couldn’t get close without getting burned. That happened only once before we moved him to a fireproof cell.”
I blink, confused. I’ve seen Kane like this. He glows like a Roman candle, and it’s hot but not scalding. I lift my eyes.
“Could he control it?” I ask. “Like, were there times when you could tolerate his heat?”
“In theory, that would be a yes,” she answers. “But you must understand, this was a very sick child. He had no desire to control—” She stops, pursing her lips, unwilling to finish the thought. Frankie presses.
“No desire to control…?”
“I’m sorry.” Nancy shakes her head. “I think that brings us to a line I’m not willing to cross.”
Frankie nods, understanding. “And you were assigned to him?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I have a master’s degree in severe and mentally disturbed phenomenon.” When Frankie and I lift stunned faces simultaneously, she gives off a small laugh. “Yes. It really is a thing.”
“That. Is. Awesome,” Frankie whispers. “So, have you ever treated a vampire?”
Nancy’s expression sends a mixed indication that she may have, but she’s not offering any information to that fact. “Let’s stick to the topic at hand,” she suggests.
Frankie nods as serious as ever. “Another time, then. So, let’s move on to a more comfortable line of questioning. I assume you were familiar with the Vatra u Krvi experiment based on your studies?”
“I was.” Nancy straightens, clearly grateful for the topic shift. “In fact, I was working toward my doctorate in that discipline.”
“And you were able to apply your knowledge here?”
“Yes.” She runs a hand over her short hair and clears her throat. “When I was certain we were dealing with a Fireblood, we gained his parents’ trust and permission to treat him as a special case. And I became his personal nurse.”
“You never went on to become a doctor,” I point out. “Why?”
She sighs. “Because this case consumed my whole life. And by the time he left, I had no desire to ever work so closely with anyone like him again. Instead, I got my administrative degree and took this position as director.”
I nod. Say no more. I get it.
“Next question.” Frankie chews on the end of her pen for a second. “You said the boy was a special case. Because he was a Fireblood? Or because he was a damaged Fireblood?”
I look at her.
“Both really,” Nancy answers. She leans back in her chair with a sigh. “I may have read about the Fireblood race in a report, but I’d never seen one, and I most definitely had never had to work with one.” She pauses, turns slightly to rest her eyes on the outside world through her window for a moment, her head propped against the back of her chair. I get the distinct impression that she’s suddenly exhausted just by reliving the ordeal. “It was quite incredible, really. If only we’d been able teach him how to control all that power.”
“So you’re saying he was a ticking time bomb,” I say, my eyes steady on her.
She hesitates, but finally nods. “Yes.”
“And he’s the only Fireblood you’ve ever seen?”
“Yes.” She spins slightly until her gaze is level with mine.
“So to your knowledge,” Frankie readies her pen again. “And in your expert opinion, would all Firebloods be subject to such unstable mental conditions? Would they all contain deformities?”
That’s clearly not the case, but I take in a slow breath anyway, waiting for Nancy’s take on this.
“Very little information is readily available on Firebloods other than the basics. We know from where the amalgam purportedly originated. We know where the research facility was housed in Ireland and that a company called Dublin Scientific Discoveries funded the research. We know the first subjects to enter the Vatra u Krvi program were human volunteers from all over the world. Other than this, Dr. Ademov was extremely discreet, to the point that many well-known professionals in the field of strange phenomenon believe his program never even left the ground.”
“Yes,” Frankie agrees. “Which is why the entire experiment has remained almost as much a myth as the Phoenix itself.”
“Exactly,” Nancy beams, and I sense their mutual exhilaration floating in the air on this more neutral ground. “But of course, based on what I saw, I have to wonder.” She pauses, and a tender smile pul
ls at her lips. “I haven’t a clue if any others exist. He’s the only one I’ve seen. So I don’t know the answer to your question.”
“What do you think of this?” Frankie lays the very first photograph she showed me onto Nancy’s desk. “Does he seem authentic?”
“He is stunning.” Nancy studies the picture, eyes wide. She’s as mesmerized as I was the first time I laid eyes on it.
“And clearly, he does not appear to be deformed in any way,” Frankie concludes.
“He does not.” She glances up. “Where did you find this picture?”
“It’s not important.” Frankie waves her off and reclaims the photo. I see she’s not about to mention her father’s crate. She takes up her pen and moves on. “Generally speaking, what kind of abilities do Firebloods exhibit… from your experience. Can they fly?”
Nancy clasps her hands. “All the aerodynamic components were present in this boy had he ever reached full wing development. His growth was stunted. But theoretically, there’s no reason why a Fireblood could not fly.”
“Any supernatural characteristics?”
“The eyes and skin were supernatural enough.” Nancy pauses and taps a finger against her lips, once again hesitant, but she finally speaks. “Some of the orderlies swore he could read their minds, and one said he always felt compelled to do things. Leave the door unlocked or bring extra food. He never did follow through on those feelings, but they were very strong. I’ve always wondered how this might have played out had the boy been more mentally stable.”
Frankie writes frantically, and I don’t like the path this conversation has taken. I change the subject.
“Where is he now?” I ask. “Where did they take him?”
“I don’t know. They checked him out against our advice.” She swallows once. “His records disappeared as well. Every piece of evidence that he was ever here.” She habitually rubs a hand across her forehead. “So I guess that means we never had this conversation.”
I smile. “Touché.” And I’m totally relieved that she says it.
“I hate to even mention this,” Nancy glances at Frankie. “But I suspected your father of destroying the records.”
