Page 11 of The Art of Exiley

He blinks, looks away, then looks back at me. “Uh, what I mean is that we need to get you to the institute as well.”

I swallow. “What institute? Why?” I don’t have to fake my curiosity, even if I may not be quite as clueless as Michael believes me to be.

Finding out about this supposed institute is the whole purpose of my mission. Over the years, the Families have come closer and closer to tracking down the exiles. Recent intel led them to believe that someone with my abilities could make contact with them at the right place and the right time and could maybe even be invited to join them. I’m not sure whether I ever truly believed it was actually possible. But here I am. And it’s suddenly seeming very,verypossible.

“You’re a Sire. You need to be trained and protected.”

Mission aside, I can’t deny that I’m desperate to know what it means to be a “Sire.” These people understand this part of me that has been a mystery—and a weight on my shoulders—for so long. It might not be my main purpose for being here, but a little more probing would only be natural from a girl who’s supposedly never heard about any of this.

“So, what, I’m some kind of scientific anomaly?”

“What? No. Not at all. Having Sire abilities is a normal recessive genetic trait. Just like blue eyes or red hair.”

Normal.I feel so much relief in that one word.

I’ll never forget the time my parents first saw evidence of my abilities. I accidentally revived some wilted roses at our dining room table, and they freaked out like I’d gotten a face tattoo. My mom threw the flowers out immediately, and my dad’s hands were actually trembling. It’s a horrible feeling, seeing fear on your parents’ faces and knowing they’re terrified of you.

I could never understand what made them so afraid, until I saw the book.

I was in middle school, and Grandfather had brought me to visit Mom at her office. As I was waiting for her, I could tell the big, gilded book on her desk was the kind of thing that those not yet initiated into the Families were definitelynotallowed to see. Of course, I couldn’t stop myself from looking.

It was all in a language I couldn’t read, but the illustrations were clear enough, and I knew why my mom must have been reading it. I couldn’t grow a vine out of my hands, throw lightning, or stop someone’s heart with a touch like the people in the colorful sketches, but whoever they were, my mom thought I was like them. And the pictures told me what happened to people like me. Drowned, burned at the stake, excommunicated. It was enough to make me want to do anything I could to prove that I was not one of those monsters.

Can it possibly be true that everything I bottled up for so long is just…normal?

Michael continues, “Being a Sire means you can manipulate Ha’i—life force—like when you made the plant grow and how you heal rapidly.”

Ha’i.He says it like the Hebrew word chai, the sound coming from the back of his throat in a way I sometimes struggled to pronounce.Ha’i.The warmth that flows through me and tingles from my palms islife force. I’ve always thought of that feeling as more of a reaction, like a blush or a shiver.

“So, how can you touch those without them hurting you?” I ask Michael, looking at the gloves.

“Because I’m not a Sire. These”—he holds up the gloves—“are made with antimatter, which counteracts Ha’i and incapacitates Sires.”

“You’re not a Sire?” I ask. “But your cut healed so quickly.”

“Ah. Right.” He gestures toward a tube of ointment. “Where I come from, medicine is more advanced.”

“I see.” I look at his forehead, where the injury still shows, but hardly. “Well, if you guys have such great medicine, how come you haven’t shared it with everyone else?”

I don’t really have a sense for how much more advanced these exiles actually are compared to the rest of us, but I know that medical knowledge is one of the things the Families most hope to gain from them. Exactly what kind of healing are these people capable of? I can’t help but think of how ill Grandfather has been recently….

“We’ve tried,” Michael answers vaguely, his lips downturned. “A lot of our medical advancements are dependent on Sire abilities. If you understood your skills, you could have healed me without any need for the patch paste.”

Is that true? For a moment I wonder if perhaps he’s recruited the wrong person after all. As far as I know, my abilities are more likely to hurt someone than help them. Could I truly be using them to heal others?

And if there are more people out there with my abilities—all apparently capable of advanced healing—then what the hell are these supposedly idealistic people doing gatekeeping that kind of knowledge?

I get up from the bed and wander over to the window.

“I’m sorry, you must be very overwhelmed,” Michael says.

“Yes, but I’m ready for you to explain it all.” I don’t turn, but I can see his reflection through the glass. He puts down the gloves and turns to give me his full attention. I meet the reflection of his eyes.

“My people are called the Makers, and I’m from the Genesis Institute, which you would not have heard of.”

I exhale. My breath fogs up the window, and I trail my finger through the condensation.

He continues. “Though we keep our existence secret, we occasionally recruit Sires like yourself to join us.”

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