Page 9 of The Art of Exiley

Abductions.I wasn’t prepared for any of this.

Granted, this whole trip came together very quickly.

Despite my family’s generations-long participation in a historic order, I was never able to be a part of it. I’d grown up with all the stories, heard so many of their wild, secret theories, and I couldn’t wait to be trained to takepart in their important work. Kor and Izzy were both initiated into the order on their thirteenth birthdays, but then my own birthday came and went with nothing. My mother said I probably just needed to wait until they considered me ready. I worked so hard the next few years, hoping to impress whoever needed to be impressed, but nothing I did ever seemed to be good enough. Eventually, I stopped trying.

Until last month, when the Families discovered the condition I’d been hiding for so long. And it turned out they needed someone exactly like me for this job. I was given an itinerary, basic explanations of what to look out for, and that was it. I knew there were some risks, but no one had said anything about anyabductions.

I feel my panic rising, but I’m still wearing the gloves and am not in the mood to have my hands cooked again. At least I’m out of the box.

I was in abox.

The reality of what I’ve just been through floods through me. I’ve been damming up my emotions as much as my need to pee, but now they’re breaking through.

“I was trapped forhours.” I choke on a sob. “Why didn’t you call the police or something?”

Michael is immediately at my side, laying a comforting hand on my arm. “Ada, I’m sorry, but these are not people that the police can protect you from. Hopefully I can. I promise that I’m here to help you, but we need to move quickly. The guards are gone for now, but I don’t want to take any chances. We’ve been incredibly lucky so far.”

I swallow past the lump in my throat and try to regain as much control as I can. “Well, if you’re here to help, can you get these off.” I shake my hands behind my back, the metal clanking loudly. “They really hurt.”

“They’re causing you pain?” He looks confused by this.

“A lot of pain,” I say through gritted teeth.

Michael circles me and crouches to inspect the gloves. He winces as hebends, and I feel a twinge of guilt for my testicular assault. He prods the gloves, then sniffs them. “By the Conductor,” he whispers in awe.

Who the hell is the Conductor?

I crane my neck to watch what he’s doing. He flips through the different functions of his multi-tool and uses one to tinker with the locking mechanism. “Are you still able to conduct?” he asks me.

“What?”

“Sorry, I mean like you did with the plant. Can you push energy through your hands?”

I stare at him blankly, but my mind is the opposite of blank. Push energy through my hands? Is that what I have been doing all my life?

“Never mind,” Michael says in response to my clear confusion. “Are the gloves still hurting you? Right now?”

They’re not, actually. My current discomfort is from the preexisting burns. I shake my head.

He bites his lips and continues to work at the lock, now with more urgency. He swipes at his brow, irritating the messy wound, which starts to bleed again. Seeing his panic causes my own to rise, and with it, my hands begin to sting against the metal.

“Ouch!” I gasp, jerking my hands away from him.

“Good,” he says with relief. “If they’re burning you, then it means you’re still conducting, and the compound probably hasn’t done any permanent damage to your abilities.”

Whatever that’s supposed to mean.

He finally gets the lock open, and the gloves fall away, hitting the floor with a metallic clack. Still crouched behind me, Michael gently inspects my hands. His rough callouses ghost over my sensitive burns. My palms flare with that familiar tingle of warmth, but this time, instead of pain, most of the lingering soreness fades completely.

Michael lets go of me and rises. “Looks like your abilities are functioning.”

I stretch my arms up, working out the stiffness before I finally look down at my hands. They’re not the blistered mess I expected. In fact, they look almost normal, except that each of my palms has a scar along the slope connecting my thumb and pointer. Twin half-moons of pink, new flesh. I’ve never had a scar before. What did the gloves do to me?

I think about the healing warmth I just felt. I’ve always healed quickly but never instantaneously.

What did I do to myself?

“Okay, let’s get out of here,” Michael says. He uses the hem of his T-shirt to wipe his bloody forehead, exposing quite a bit of too-old-for-me abdomen.

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