THE
SILVER NEEDLE twinkled fiendishly in his hand.
I
tried not to watch, turning my head as the delicate sword penetrated
my flesh, but my eyes always betrayed me. Each and every time. My
heart raced, my breath quickened—
“Mon
Dieu!”
Hercule exclaimed in his heavy French accent. “This has happened,
how many times now? Why still do you fret so much?”
“Yeah,
Mrs. W,” Mr. Smith agreed. “You had your head cut off by a ten
foot lobster, for Pete’s sake. What’s a little poke with a
needle?”
They
just didn’t understand. “I never liked needles,” I sighed as
Mr. Wesson removed the implement of torture from my arm and gingerly
applied an alcohol-soaked cotton ball. Safety first.
Mr.
Smith and Mr. Wesson, whom I dubbed my mad scientists, came with the
house I inherited. Not that most mansions in New Orleans have mad
scientists, but who knows? Mr. Smith (sorry, I don’t know either of
their first names) was a tall man, barrel chested, with long black
hair pulled harshly back into a pony tail. He painted his fingernails
black as well. His lab partner was a short skinny man with crazy
curly hair, somewhere between Harpo Marx and Albert Einstein.
These
days they had a new daily routine for me. They used to make me run
obstacle courses, or spar, or practice my time
guardian talent, which was what people in the know called my
ability to slow down time. But, after the events eight months
ago—when I supposedly conjured a gun—they’ve focused solely on
recreating that result. Conjuring. Unsuccessfully, I
might add. Almost daily they take a little of my blood, analyze it,
and try to come up with explanations for why I just can’t do it
again.
I
rubbed my sore arm. “What’s wrong with yesterday’s sample?” I
huffed.
“Nothing’s
wrong with it,” Mr. Smith explained. “We need a daily sample.
We’ve explained this to you already.” Actually, only Mr. Smith
explained things. Mr. Wesson never says a word. “We’re having a
hard time nailing down your energy signature since it changes almost
every day. So, we’re analyzing it, yes, every
day,
trying to understand how you’re changing. We’re making …
progress,” he smiled, pointing at a monitor from over Mr. Wesson’s
shoulder, but he didn’t sound so sure.
I’d
heard those words many times now. I scowled my discontent.
About
eight months ago, I was tricked into believing Nathan Marble, my
lawyer, had killed my husband. In a rage of hatred and vengeance I
conjured a gun, right out of thin air. Not my gun; I
don’t own one. Not a gun any of my staffers ever saw before. But
there it was, in my hand, locked and loaded, ready to make Mr. Marble
another New Orleans urban statistic.
It
didn’t happen, I’m happy to report. I didn’t pull the trigger.
He confessed at that moment that he was my husband’s brother. That
was just enough to quell the rage. Just barely.
“S’il
vous plaît,”
Hercule Poirot said, “I will try to explain.” It has taken me a
long while to get comfortable with his small stature, his shiny brown
body … and his six legs. And talking, no less. The Great Hercule
was a cockroach. He preferred the term cafard.
“You are not yet complete in your manifesting. You are still
growing. Still changing. When you are fully grown you will have five
talents.”
Talent is
what we called magic in this world. We don’t like
to use the word magic. Apparently, it reminds everyone of the Salem
witch trials.
“Yeah,”
I sighed, “This I know.”
“You’ve
barely achieved two talents so far. The intention of the science
monkeys, I believe, is to monitor you daily and see how you change.
Thus, the buffoons with lab coats can predict how your talents
manifest and help you tap into those energies you have yet to
possess.”
Mr.
Smith muttered a “hey” at the buffoon reference. He seemed
content, however, being called a science monkey.
“What
if that’s all I get? Two talents, I mean. I wasn’t born talented.
Maybe, because of how I got my talents, they’re limited. Or
uncontrollable.” In addition to the house, I inherited my ability
from my husband. It was his last act on this earth. Sort of … it’s
complicated.
“Possible,
yes,” the roach continued. “However, I know you are not complete
because you still have no shining.”
I
cocked an eyebrow as I donned my powder blue leather jacket, flipping
my stark white hair free of it. “Shining?”
“Yes.
The shining. The illumination of the eyes.”
“The
bug’s right,” Mr. Smith said, overhearing the conversation. “You
never shine.”
“Recall, chére,
when Nathan, or the one you call Jeeves, or any of the others …
when they use their talents, the eyes have a different appearance, do
they not?”
They
did. Their faces would grow gaunt, almost skull-like, their eyes
shining bright green—“Ah. Shining.”
“Oui. It
is a sign of maturity,” Hercule said. He perched himself on the lab
table, seated upright on the edge, with his back legs dangling and
his topmost folded. His middle legs braced upon the metal. Count ‘em:
six. “And you have no shine. Or wit, for that matter.”
“Fine.
I still have talents coming,” I told the cafard, immune
to his sharp tongue. “What I don’t get is why my blood is needed.
Isn’t energy, well, energy?” I waved my hands in the air in a
type of demonstration. “What does my blood have to do with it?”
“Your
energy is in your blood,” Mr. Smith said, “as well as your skin,
your hair, and so on. This way, we can study it without you being
here.” With that, he made a “shoo” motion with his fingers.
Thank
goodness. Officially dismissed, I spun on my heels and headed
out.
Such
was my life.