rule.
Homo sapiens took down everybody else to become the apex predator on this planet, and not because we were bigger, badder, sharper, faster, harder or more frightening than anybody else.
We're tool users.
Just like me.
V
Yet the sun still rose
* * *
St. Vincent's hospital lurks at the corner where 7th Avenue angles to the west on its way downtown into the heart of Greenwich Village. It may have loomed there one day, but now things are simply too tall and it's all it can do to lurk, pushing its emergency entrance out into the avenue in a bid to be noticed.
I don't like hospitals. I haven't since my parents passed away. This was altogether too familiar.
Still, I went in anyway and stopped at the receptionist. They eye you peculiarly when you wander around New York in a long Burberry's trench coat on not-particularly-cool fall evenings. The orderly behind the counter glanced up from his computer monitor, beige plastic stained with finger oils and unknown greases. "Yes?"
"Here to visit Nan Wibert." I had to spell it for him.
"Room 727. Have you been here before?" I nodded. He grimaced in apology. "Right. Elevators over there."
Room 727 was like all the other rooms I could see, but this one was bathed in a brilliant light, because my grandmother was in it. She was lying in a throne-like bed of medical technology, face peaceful, sleeping. I walked to her side and looked down at her. The machines muttered to themselves in their secret chatter, glyphs winking out furiously for those with medical training decoder rings to decipher. I just looked at the woman.
She'd raised me, those years in the West Village. Taken me into her small apartment when my parents were taken from us, and made me a part of her life and her a part of mine. The grief of those long ago years wasn't lessened, but it was countered with the love that she had laid over the wounds.
A nurse walked past and looked into the room, saw me, and leaned in. "Sir?"
I turned.
"Oh, Mr. Wibert, I'm sorry, I didn't recognize you."
"It's all right."
She came into the room and stood by me, looking down at my grandmother. "She's had that half-smile on all day. She looks very peaceful."
I didn't snarl at her, but it took a great deal of effort. Instead I swallowed and said, "She's dying."
The nurse patted my arm. "Yes, dear, she is. But she's at peace, with her family, and she's not in pain, and she's led a full, long life. Would you have her go any other way?"
I didn't answer. The nurse patted my arm again and slipped out. I just looked at the woman in the bed, because I knew something the nurse didn't know. I slipped one hand into my overcoat and rested my palm against the lump just over my breastbone, where the Baba's vial lay. I could feel the Power concentrated there. I knew it wouldn't diminish it in the slightest if I let it free. That's what the Water of Life did, after all - it granted life to a soul and to a body, if used for that purpose. That's what Baba Yaga did with it as a Goddess of Nature.
And she'd given it to me.
I turned away from Gran’mere and found a chair to sit in, my arms trembling. I rubbed my eyes with sweaty palms and arranged my coat to hang in a more comfortable manner over the bandolier at my chest and the large gun at my side. I'm not all that small, and the chair was struggling to make it work, but I didn't care.
I have no real Power as a mage, or sorcerer, or witch, or whatever word you'd like to use. I have one talent, one which is shared by many more people in this world than realize they have it, but which is discouraged by society and religions and science. It is discouraged to the point that most people who have it convince themselves that they're imagining things by the time they're teenagers. Some that refuse to do so later burn their minds out on drugs to make it go away, and nearly all those who avoid that fate either learn to conceal it or end up in treatment for various esoteric forms of insanity. Some become
Homo sapiens took down everybody else to become the apex predator on this planet, and not because we were bigger, badder, sharper, faster, harder or more frightening than anybody else.
We're tool users.
Just like me.
V
Yet the sun still rose
* * *
St. Vincent's hospital lurks at the corner where 7th Avenue angles to the west on its way downtown into the heart of Greenwich Village. It may have loomed there one day, but now things are simply too tall and it's all it can do to lurk, pushing its emergency entrance out into the avenue in a bid to be noticed.
I don't like hospitals. I haven't since my parents passed away. This was altogether too familiar.
Still, I went in anyway and stopped at the receptionist. They eye you peculiarly when you wander around New York in a long Burberry's trench coat on not-particularly-cool fall evenings. The orderly behind the counter glanced up from his computer monitor, beige plastic stained with finger oils and unknown greases. "Yes?"
"Here to visit Nan Wibert." I had to spell it for him.
"Room 727. Have you been here before?" I nodded. He grimaced in apology. "Right. Elevators over there."
Room 727 was like all the other rooms I could see, but this one was bathed in a brilliant light, because my grandmother was in it. She was lying in a throne-like bed of medical technology, face peaceful, sleeping. I walked to her side and looked down at her. The machines muttered to themselves in their secret chatter, glyphs winking out furiously for those with medical training decoder rings to decipher. I just looked at the woman.
She'd raised me, those years in the West Village. Taken me into her small apartment when my parents were taken from us, and made me a part of her life and her a part of mine. The grief of those long ago years wasn't lessened, but it was countered with the love that she had laid over the wounds.
A nurse walked past and looked into the room, saw me, and leaned in. "Sir?"
I turned.
"Oh, Mr. Wibert, I'm sorry, I didn't recognize you."
"It's all right."
She came into the room and stood by me, looking down at my grandmother. "She's had that half-smile on all day. She looks very peaceful."
I didn't snarl at her, but it took a great deal of effort. Instead I swallowed and said, "She's dying."
The nurse patted my arm. "Yes, dear, she is. But she's at peace, with her family, and she's not in pain, and she's led a full, long life. Would you have her go any other way?"
I didn't answer. The nurse patted my arm again and slipped out. I just looked at the woman in the bed, because I knew something the nurse didn't know. I slipped one hand into my overcoat and rested my palm against the lump just over my breastbone, where the Baba's vial lay. I could feel the Power concentrated there. I knew it wouldn't diminish it in the slightest if I let it free. That's what the Water of Life did, after all - it granted life to a soul and to a body, if used for that purpose. That's what Baba Yaga did with it as a Goddess of Nature.
And she'd given it to me.
I turned away from Gran’mere and found a chair to sit in, my arms trembling. I rubbed my eyes with sweaty palms and arranged my coat to hang in a more comfortable manner over the bandolier at my chest and the large gun at my side. I'm not all that small, and the chair was struggling to make it work, but I didn't care.
I have no real Power as a mage, or sorcerer, or witch, or whatever word you'd like to use. I have one talent, one which is shared by many more people in this world than realize they have it, but which is discouraged by society and religions and science. It is discouraged to the point that most people who have it convince themselves that they're imagining things by the time they're teenagers. Some that refuse to do so later burn their minds out on drugs to make it go away, and nearly all those who avoid that fate either learn to conceal it or end up in treatment for various esoteric forms of insanity. Some become
Similar Books
Return (Coming Home #1)
Meli Raine
Only You (A Sweet Torment Novel)
Joya Ryan
Recipes for Life
Linda Evans
Whirlwind Wedding
Debra Cowan
The Prophecies (The Sentinel Series Book 2)
Holly Martin
Pulling Away
Shawn Lane
Animal Magnetism
Jill Shalvis
The Sinister Signpost
Franklin W. Dixon
Midnight Ash (A Blushing Death Novel)
Suzanne M. Sabol
Tales of a Traveller
Washington Irving