I sniffed. Yup, still covered in sewer. Dried sewer, now.
There was also the issue of the walls. They were beige. Like, beige beige. Your-grandma’s-guest-room-from-the-fifties beige.
I had no clue where I was.
Reluctantly, I sat up again. The room was... expensive. There was a console table with medical equipment. An I.V. next to my bed. Two TVs and shelves of flower pots and succulents. I could tell there was a large bathroom through another door, too.
I extended my elbow. Needle marks bruised the crease of my arm.
This must be one of those fancy private hospitals that the full-blooded supes used. Sweet, but why the hell was I here? It’s not like the Union would put me up anywhere fancy.
I groaned. The Union wouldn’t have paid for this. But my parents certainly would.
It was definitely like them to wait until I was unconscious to buy me expensive shit. I wouldn’t have accepted this if I was awake, that was for certain. The Union had perfectly good, albeit constantly packed hospitals that I would be much more comfortable in.
Parents. They were relentless.
It was rare that two full-blooded supes of the same class — meaning witches, shifters and vampires — gave birth to someone with abnormal, glitchy powers.
But it happens. Case and point: me.
My step-dad, Hunter, and my real father were powerful warlocks. I grew up a Cut stuck in a full-blooded witch family. Home life had been cushy all throughout childhood.
It had been clear from a young age that I didn’t have my family’s gifts. Usually, witches and warlocks started manifesting powers at the age of five. Their little fingers could pinch herbs and infuse them with magic before dropping them into a simmering pot. They could draw a beginner’s rune with crayon and paper and activate the power within those lines.
But not me. I could do one thing, and one thing only. Despite the tutoring, the homeschooling, the intense practice, the magical specialists who’d examined me, it was clear by age nine that I wouldn’t be manifesting any witchy powers.
I’d thought, quite naively, that Mom and Dad’s coven would still welcome me with open arms, even if I wasn’t a real witch. I’d studied recipes and helped Mom and Dad gather ingredients for their potions. I was involved in everything magical, except for the magic itself.
Being an assistant was my top goal. Why wouldn’t the coven, people who’d babysat me and kissed my cheeks, let me serve them and sit with them?
Well, at age ten, the coven leaders had stopped meeting my eye. By age eleven, they’d ceased coming over to our house entirely, instead inviting my parents to theirs to avoid experiencing the discomfort of seeing me.
By age twelve, any witch and warlock who had a brain could tell that I wasn’t one of them. The Children of the Moon had that kind of sense, and boy could they sense me.
And everything I lacked.
Getting dark looks inside a witch restaurant as a child was one thing. Going to school with my fellow Cuts was another. Especially since it was clear I wasn’t really one of them, either.
Sure, I had abnormal powers, but that was where the similarities ended.
My parents didn’t struggle for jobs, food or clothing. I didn’t grow up in Cut neighborhoods or have Cut childhood friends. And worse, I hadn’t known how everything, from my ward-enchanted charm necklace to the thick perfume of lavender and sage that clung to my hair and clothes, made me stand out like the sorest fucking thumb.
The witches in school snubbed me. The elite supes tormented me.
But the Cuts? They simply loathed me, and made sure I was never accepted.
As I got my metaphorical feet wet in the real world, I’d come to terms with the fact that the school didn’t care if elite supes like Marni Humphries locked me in a janitor’s closet or stole my things. Administration couldn’t give two shits about whether I’d had friends or not.
So I’d made my armor thick, and cut out a space for myself. One that no one could touch. One that would make them bleed if they tried.
It had involved a lot of fighting back. And even more fighting dirty.
That’s where I’d found my secondary superpowers; adaptation and sheer willpower were my only advantages, and I fucking committed to that shit and scared enough people into leaving me alone.
After my first four months at school, people began to flinch and duck when I entered the room, like they weren’t sure if I had a stolen hallucinogenic potion in my pocket or not. They weren’t sure if a wrong look would earn them a magical smoke bomb in their locker that would give them nightmares for a week.
To be honest, I’d been proud of that reputation. Life had been lonely, sure. But I’d been alive, and earned begrudging respect.
When life pulls a knife on you, it’s your job to come back with a grenade and the fury of the gods.
As the story goes, I’d eventually turned eighteen and graduated. Standing at a crossroads.
I was going to be a Cut for the rest of my life. And so, I’d have to learn to be one on my own and create my own path. Without any help.
And so I had.
Mom and Dad tried to buy me the nicest apartment. The newest car. All the expensive appliances. The wardrobe of my dreams. Hook me up with the best job.
I’d refused it all. I’d led my life on my own. It was hard as hell, but I was alive, wasn’t I?
Now, if only I could figure out why my hospital door was dead-bolted shut.
I’d snapped out of my musings and approached the door, hoping to find some answers on the other side. But the metal handle was cold and immovable as I yanked on it. No one came when I pounded on the door. There wasn’t even the bustle of nurses or staff outside. Was this door soundproofed or something?
Unease settled in my stomach like hunks of iron.
Yet worrying wouldn’t get me anywhere. There was plenty of time to scold Mom and Dad for this room, but I still had to shower. I was an actual nightmare right now.
I shuffled stiffly into the bathroom and guzzled water from the sink. I got the shower running and washed and scrubbed and practically scalded my skin.
I think I used a pint of shampoo. With every bit of sewer that ran down the drain, I felt a little more like myself.
Which reminded me of the donuts and hunger. And the fact that I’d clearly dropped a few pounds. How long had I been unconscious?
After thirty minutes, I finally turned it off. I put on a bath robe and strode back into the room.
The beige room.
“Vomit,” I blurted at the walls. “You look like vomit.”
“That’s not what I’m usually told, but I think you better get dressed.”
Startled, I took in the newcomer. It was a vampire in white scrubs. She had her hair pulled back in a tight bun, and her fangs flashed as she gave me her most welcoming grin.
“Where am I?”
She blinked in surprise. “In St. Delilah’s Hospital.”
“Cuts don’t come here.” Correction: they don’t afford to come here. This was the hospitals made for the elite. I wasn’t even sure how Mom and Dad could afford this.
The nurse smiled kindly and gestured to the console table, where a stack of black clothing and a pale file folder now lay. “I’m afraid I don’t have the time to go through all the details with you, but I can assure you it’s all in there. A Union representative will arrive shortly to escort you to your trial. Please be conscious of the time. You have eleven minutes. If there is a medical emergency, our sensors will alert us, and we’ll be happy to assist you.”