Chapter 19: The Closing Days
Training with a destroyed voice required relearning everything I thought I understood about my abilities. Eugene spotted me in the abandoned west wing, taking notes with scientific precision while I tested the new limitations that Crackstone had burned into my throat.
"Rise."
The book lifted six inches off the desk, trembling with the effort of obeying damaged compulsion. Three hours of throat pain followed—not the sharp agony of overuse, but persistent ache that felt like swallowing glass fragments.
"Stop."
A rolling ball froze mid-motion for exactly four seconds before physics reasserted itself. Five hours of recovery time, nearly double my pre-battle baseline.
New math. Ten to twelve uses before complete voice failure, down from twenty-plus.
Most powerful ability now most fragile.
Eugene documented everything in a journal that looked like something from a research laboratory. Power output measurements, recovery times, psychological cost assessments. The systematic approach to supernatural abilities that only someone who'd nearly died would develop.
"Still worth it?" he asked after each session.
My rasped response never changed: "Eugene's alive. Always worth it."
True. Every time.
The revelation was sobering but not paralyzing. I'd traded raw power for precision, quantity for strategy. Less ammunition meant making every shot count.
Evolution through limitation.
When Eugene suggested testing "Burn" without a target, I refused immediately.
"Wednesday lectured me about responsible power use," I explained. "Some experiments aren't worth the risk."
Some lessons don't need to be learned firsthand.
Enid found my thinking spot without asking for directions—roof access that provided perfect shadow coverage and isolation from the campus chaos below. She appeared one evening with the casual confidence of someone who'd decided we were close enough for unsolicited companionship.
"Mind if I sit?"
Already sitting.
She settled beside me with fluid grace that suggested her wolf transformation had changed more than just her ability to sprout claws. Everything about her movement was more controlled now, more aware.
"Pack gathering this summer," she said without preamble. "Three weeks of alpha expectations, strategic mate discussions, and my mother treating my transformation like a political opportunity."
Arranged werewolf marriage politics. Lovely.
"Sounds suffocating."
"Completely." Enid's laugh held no humor. "They want to auction off my genetics to strengthen pack alliances. Like I transformed so they could add 'successful breeder' to my resume."
Performance versus authenticity. The eternal struggle.
She talked for twenty minutes about summer plans that sounded more like prison sentences, and I listened with the intensity that had become automatic around her. Enid was one of the few people whose words carried layers beneath the surface—performed cheerfulness masking genuine anxiety, strategic optimism hiding real fear.
She needs someone who hears what she's not saying.
When she finally asked about my summer, I admitted the truth: "Training. Understanding my powers before they understand me."
Enid laughed—surprised, delighted. "That's such a weird way to phrase it."
"Powers have their own logic. Push too hard and they push back." I gestured at my damaged throat. "Better to negotiate than fight."
Her expression grew serious. "You're afraid of them. Your abilities."
Perceptive. Always perceptive.
"Cursed Speech makes people obey. Familiarity Mode makes them trust. Both are violations of autonomy." The words came out rough, damaged vocal cords making sincerity sound like threat. "I'm terrified of becoming comfortable with that level of control."
Enid took my hand—simple contact that somehow managed to convey understanding, support, and something warmer I wasn't ready to name.
"The fact that you're afraid means you won't become monstrous. Monsters don't worry about their impact on others."
Simple wisdom. Profound truth.
The touch lingered longer than friendship required, and something unspoken passed between us—not confession, but acknowledgment of potential that scared and thrilled in equal measure.
Connection. Genuine connection.
Maybe I was ready for whatever came next.
Wednesday's intelligence briefing came with the clinical precision I'd learned to expect from our alliance. She spread documents across the library table like a general planning invasion, each piece of evidence arranged for maximum impact.
"Valeria Crane," she announced. "Our new principal. Obscure administrator with impeccable credentials and mysterious connection to my family."
New principal. Fresh start or new threat?
The photographs showed a woman in her fifties with sharp features and eyes that suggested she'd seen things that would break most people. Professional competence wrapped around something harder, more dangerous.
"My mother refused to discuss her when I asked. That level of evasion suggests either deep history or dangerous secrets."
Addams family evasion. Definitely worth investigating.
My transmigrator memories stirred with half-formed recognition. Something about godfathers and season two and complications I couldn't quite access.
"Is she a threat?"
Wednesday's expression was unreadable. "Unknown. But anyone my family actively avoids discussing bears watching."
Fair assessment.
She provided what intelligence existed: publication history focused on outcast rights and emergence theory, previous position at a European academy with mysteriously high success rates, and a gap in her records that suggested either classified work or deliberate obfuscation.
"Summer research project," Wednesday concluded. "Determine if our new principal is ally or enemy. You have the skillset for invisible investigation."
Trust. She's trusting me with intelligence gathering.
Professional respect earned through repeated survival.
"Accepted."
The last day of school year felt like the end of an era. Students flooded off campus with expressions that mixed relief and trauma, most of them probably needing therapy but settling for summer vacation instead.
Eugene departed with promises to email training schedules and bee research updates, his arms loaded with equipment for whatever projects would consume his summer. The Defense Initiative proposal had become his obsession, systematic planning that would probably save lives when we returned.
"Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone," he said with mock sternness.
"Define stupid."
"Anything that requires more than two Cursed Speech commands to resolve."
Fair boundary.
Enid's goodbye lasted slightly longer than friendship required—hug that lingered, whispered "text me this summer" that carried weight beyond casual contact. When her family's car disappeared down the drive, something in my chest felt hollow.
Attachment. Dangerous attachment.
Wednesday's farewell was characteristically efficient: single nod across the quad that acknowledged our alliance and dismissed sentiment simultaneously. Professional respect without emotional complication.
Perfect Wednesday interaction.
I remained until campus emptied completely, then practiced shadow manipulation in the blessed silence. Twenty-five meter range achieved, constructs holding for thirty seconds, and something new—shadow sense that let me perceive through darkness itself.
Progress. Real progress.
My reflection in the empty window showed someone different than had arrived three months ago. Scarred throat, dangerous powers, and people he'd die to protect. The isolation I'd cultivated so carefully had been demolished.
Not sure if that's victory or vulnerability.
Probably both.