CENSORED 23: AINSLEY

I love the Ward as much as I’m likely to love anything about this awful freaking place. Every floor has a purpose, from the basement morgue Sunny claims for herself by licking the embalming table, to the rooftop garden ranging in horticulture from flowers to fruits. There are floors with clinics for animal or human care, general labour and trades, research laboratories for testing and application, and more.

It hadn’t really occurred to me that the Ward was anything beyond a general medical facility, but the Healing Sect covers much more than basic pathology. It offers resources for all kinds of hands-on repairs, from people to apparel, and it encompasses construction too.

Our weekly schedule will be somewhat consistent. In the mornings, we’ll have General Studies with Docent LightFire, but in the afternoons, we’ll rotate between the Healing, Fighting, and Scholar Sects.

I’m not sure what the Registry is going to offer that might tickle my fancy, but the Ward has several areas I won’t mind learning more about, starting with the rooftop garden. We rarely spent any time inside our small house. The buildings at the academy, while gigantic in comparison, still have me feeling caged. I need more fresh air.

It takes us hours to get through the tour. By the time we’re done, my sparks are rallying in protest. I hang back from the group, not really keen on their unbridled enthusiasm driving me over the edge. If I can hold out until dinner at the Oculus, I’ll stand in line with the other charges and offer free samples to the thirsty as heck wielders on their way in. I haven’t done that yet, but after my Luke misfire, I know I better get on board with managing my influx so I won’t have to resort to such desperate measures again.

It’s getting easier for me to recognize the overflow signs. For instance, the tiny construction workers in my head hammering the snot out of their nails will start tearing the support beams down if I don’t release my sparks soon. What I’m still struggling with is knowing which spark is in excess. I can tell easily enough when it’s a foundational collapse, but the symptoms are all so similar at the early stages there’s no way for me to know what joists I need to reinforce.

I draw a long breath, pausing to lean against the storage corridor wall on the third level where we ended our official tour. Everyone else has already exited the hall. They’re taking turns, like good little lemming squibs, waiting for the elevator to bring them back to the main floor.

There are Ward Guards posted at the end of the hall on the outside of the door. I feel safe pushing myself this way, private yet not entirely alone. It’s a fair balance. If my sparks spaz out, I’m covered. I’m not putting myself or anyone else in danger by trying to hold out on my release. I couldn’t tell you what my levels are since I dutifully ruined the display screen of my shackle, but clearly they aren’t high enough to make it bellow a war cry, so I reckon this is as good a time as any to test myself.

Where does my joy live? I close my eyes and picture my family. Dad. Adley. Asher. Atlas. Archie. They’re everything to me. They’re the reason for every breath, every smile, every happy tear and the sad ones too, every hope and dream. They’re my future, and I won’t lose them, even if keeping them means I have to suffer through this horsecrap schooling.

I inhale deeply, keeping my eyes closed as the pain in my head starts to increase. A single tear slides down my cheek, and I dang near take a heart attack when someone wipes it away.

My eyes shoot open. Callen’s standing before me with his head cocked to the side. “You need help,” he decides.

I shake my head, but he doesn’t wait for me to voice my protest. He moves closer, cupping my cheeks in his clammy as heck hands. “It doesn’t have to hurt,” he oozes, “even when we take.”

Desire floods through me. I find myself leaning closer as flickers of warmth skitter along my skin, leaving goosebumps everywhere his water spark touches me. When he draws his mouth close to mine, his breath dancing across my lips, I want nothing more than to chase away the space between us and feel the pressure of those lips on mine. I arch my body forward, desperate to have him against me. The escalating need in me grows with every passing second.

A pulsing torrent washes through me and intimately caresses everything in its path, soft fingertips stroking sensitive flesh, my body rippling as my water spark rushes to meet his. I’m panting into Callen’s mouth, though his lips still haven’t met mine. If he doesn’t bridge the gap soon, I fear the space might swallow us both up inside it.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, he’s ripped away from me entirely. I’m left disoriented from the sudden retraction and absence of his hands on my cheeks. I blink hard trying to clear my vision. My mind is swamped with feelings that are confusing me.

Luke has Callen on the floor, punching and punching him over and over until I can’t tell where his face ends and Luke’s bloody knuckles begin. I lurch forward trying to haul him off Callen. When he swirls around to face me, so does his fist. That flailer nails me dead bang in the sauce shooter. Luke grunts in frustration while blood pours from my split lip. “Sorry,” he scuppers.

Screw him. Sorry isn’t helping the poor wrecked wussy groaning in agony on the floor. Luke’s managed to knock the sense back into me though. Like always, my emotional compass points north to fury.

“What the hairy hammer’s wrong with you, White Horse?” I roar.

“He was sexually assaulting you,” he spumes.

I stare blanks, trying to process that. I didn’t ask Callen to put his slug slimy hands on me, but I hadn’t felt assaulted at the time. I shoot out a disgruntled breath as I try to reconcile what happened, what more could’ve happened without Luke’s intervention.

“How’s it any different than what you do?” I unholster, wrath making camp in my heart as it always does when I don’t know how to handle myself.

“I do it to protect you,” he breakwaters. “He was doing it to molest you.”

“I was just trying to show her it didn’t have to hurt,” Callen squirts from his fetal position on the floor. “I didn’t touch her anywhere but her face.”

“Messing with her head’s just as bad!” Luke whitecaps, kicking him again in the side for good measure.

“It only hurts because you resist it,” Luke groans in defeat, turning his attention back to me. “The pain would stop if you’d stop resisting.”

I know he’s right. I felt that when giving my sparks to Keira, Aspen, and Maverick. I felt it even more keenly when giving my water spark to Luke in his bed last night, but I’m stubborn and incapable of admitting I’m wrong. Agreeing with him gives him power over me, and I’m never submitting to him like that.

“Well, that’s never happening because you keep stealing stuff without my consent,” I lock and load.

“You have to release your sparks,” he sprays.

“You don’t get to tell me what to do, White Horse. I might be stuck with this curse, but it’s mine. Not. Freaking. Yours. I’ll do whatever the heck I want with whoever the heck I want,” I discharge.

Callen rolls toward me, looking up with hope in his eyes. I glare back for a second before capping him too. “If you ever freaking touch me again without my consent, I’ll break off every one of your fingers and shove them up your butt.”

He shudders.

Luke crests a brow.

“That goes for both you thirsty slugs.” I turn on my heels to storm away before Luke can beat me to it.

“We’re not done here!” Luke billows.

I walk faster for spite, but he grabs my arm and swirls me around to face him. When he does, whether he means to or not, I feel the painful chill at the contact point where his water spark reaches into me. Refusing to acknowledge my need for consent is a poor choice on his part that comes with stiff sentencing. Instead of surrendering to the ice snake slithering through my veins, and sending my water spark toward him unwillingly, I shoot fire through the channel. What will that do? Well, it’ll make him wildly uncomfortable and very, very sorry he didn’t heed my warning. He might be able to force me to give, but he can’t control what he gets. Freaking A, Grady. You glorious genius.

My fire spark goes blazing through my blood, melting away the ice and scorching a new and dangerous path into Luke. He falls forward, knocking me to the ground with him towering above me. He shakes me violently, my head slamming into the floor with each powerful blow and blackening my vision. Then he hauls his arm behind him before backhanding me with the full force of his swing right across the face.

Frank pulls him off, and holds him back, while Luke bucks wildly to get free. With unbridled fury, I get to my feet, take two steps forward, and punch him so hard in the nose it explodes in a geyser of blood that coats my face, soaks my shirt, and pours like a waterfall down his chin to the floor.

“Let me give you some advice on how to be a breaker and not a weeny wavelet,” I smoke. “The next time you want to hit me, White Horse, use a closed freaking fist instead of being a little backdoor blitzer.”

Frank keeps hold of him, even though he’s stopped fighting the restraints.

“Don’t follow me,” I warn him as I crash through the exit doors.

He doesn’t follow. I half expected him to. Half wanted him to.

I plow through the two gaping guards and press the elevator button repeatedly to make it come faster. I wipe furiously at my face like that’s going to get the blood fountain off it. Knowing soup sandwich is about to be the dinner special if I don’t calm the heck down, I pull out my Sparklet to call Asher. I can never stay mad when I talk to him. He answers on the first ring, and he isn’t alone. I magnify the display screen as I exit the elevator, then the Ward.

“What happened to your face?” Atlas asks.

“Making friends already, huh?” Adley jokes.

“Is that your blood?” Asher frowns. “Are you okay?”

Archie grins. “How bad is the other guy?”

“Mostly not my blood,” I report, stomping my way along the path toward the courtyard. “Pretty sure I broke his nose.”

“Good,” they agree in unison. Even Asher approves. Bullseye.

“Who started it?” Atlas wants to know.

“Me,” I quickfire.

“Who ended it?” Archie counters.

“Also me.”

I park my butt on the first bench I pass. Several moments go by where no one says anything. We just stare at each other hopelessly, unable to truly connect. They’re close and still so very far away.

“Just remember the golden shower rule,” Dad states firmly, pushing onto the screen.

I scowl. “He’d probably like it if I pissed on him.”

Dad gives me the face, and I volley a feral groan. “Not going to bed pissed doesn’t really apply here.”

“It always applies, Ainz,” he contends, “especially there.”

“I called you for support,” I slamfire.

“We are supporting you,” Asher promises.

I click my tongue. “I know.”

We sit there in silence again for long enough that the short fuse of my rage burns right out. Sawed off little scut can’t even be bothered with a countdown from ten.

“Do you feel better now?” Archie scrunches up his nose. “Your eyes look less murdery.”

I nod.

Adley grimaces. “Your face could use some soap.”

“I should go wash up for dinner I guess.”

“We love you!” They make kiss faces at the screen.

“I love you too.”

I wish I could’ve held onto the fury for a little longer because without it I’m forced to take ownership of my crap. I exposed myself to Callen, and Luke saved me from that massive misfire. How did I thank him? By shooting my fire spark into him. I physically hurt him. That’s the reason he’d lashed out at me like he did.

I’m not about to vocally apologize to him though. He’s still a jerkwad, even if I’m a bigger one. Trying to talk to him is just going to start another fight, either with words or more freaking fists. There’s really only one thing I can offer him to make things right between us. My water spark. So, when we’re in our room later tonight, I’ll crawl into bed with him again. This time, I’ll make sure he’s awake, and I’ll give him exactly what he wants. Then he’ll have to forgive me, and maybe I’ll be able to forgive myself for letting things get so blitzed.