Pretty boy snorts. “Sorry, no. Not even one that I suspect might be.” He shifts in his chair, his hands spreading. “Sorry. Besides, I’m going after Santa Claus, remember?”
Connor shakes his head. “We need this figured out yesterday, Seb. We’re in the eye of the storm here. The Order is going to be careful while the authorities are investigating this bombing. But they will eventually strike again. Understanding the magic of this ring and the water in that vial is paramount.”
“Think what it could do for us, Seb,” Ellison chimes in. “If we understood the magic, maybe we could make an antidote for the poison or a shield against their weapons.”
Lucas piles on. “And if this doesn’t work or it happens again, what’s next? Declaring a code red and sending civilians into hiding? Battling Order members in the streets like we did a hundred years ago? It’s going to be different now that there are cameras everywhere.”
Connor frowns. “We may need to do both those things, with or without the witch.”
I plant my face in my palm. “I have a bad feeling about this.”
Connor grips the shoulder of my suit jacket. “As of tonight at midnight, this is your circus and your monkeys. You can decide how you want to proceed, but no one is in a better place to force Zoe Willow to do what we need her to do than you.”
Chapter Three
ZOE
I’m not saying this job is completely without merit, just that the work is emotionally soul-killing and that security should take your belt and shoelaces each morning as a precaution. Everyone in my row of cubicles is one tough call away from snapping. Even the ancient building I work in is depressing. It’s never the right temperature, smells mildly of blue cheese, and rumor has it there’s still asbestos in the walls. We work in a gray world of half-sized cubicles constructed in two rows, on a floor that used to serve as an orphanage a hundred years ago. Every time someone coughs, I hear echoes of long-forgotten children suffering from consumption.
I am leashed to my workstation by a headset with a long curly cord, circa 2010. My conversations are being recorded for quality assurance. Going off script is strictly prohibited. During the pandemic, the company allowed people to work from home, but the second employees could get the jab, they scrapped that program. Too hard to monitor bathroom breaks, I guess. According to management, there is absolutely no reason a person should need more than fifteen minutes untethered from their computer.
The ping comes in my ear, and I speak even before I register the meaning of the words I’m saying. It’s like I’m in a trance or something, half asleep and reciting from rote memory. “Regal Health. How may I help you?”
“You denied my wife’s claim. She’s very ill and needs chemo to save her life. The hospital says Regal is refusing to pay.” The voice on the other end of the line is male and trembles with barely contained rage. I’m betting he’s called before, and I’m betting that I won’t be able to give him a different answer.
“Can I have the name and address on the account, please?” He gives it to me, and I bring up his claim. Jesus Christ, he has called before. Like fifty times. Wife has a rare form of cancer excluded from the policy. He’s insured by Regal and is up-to-date on his premiums, but his policy doesn’t cover her specific illness. My eyes go blurry as I recite the canned response the system gives me, redirecting him to his insurance agent to review his policy.
“You people are heartless!” he seethes. “How do you look at yourself in the mirror in the morning?”
Everything feels heavy. This isn’t my fault, but I feel complicit in what’s happening to this man. Maybe a few years ago, I could work a little magic on the system and help him without Regal ever knowing. I come from a long line of powerful witches after all. But I pushed too hard and abused my craft. I’ve been cut off. I’ve got nothing anymore. I can’t even conjure myself a cheese sandwich.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble into my microphone. “I’m just a call representative. There’s nothing I can do.”
He sniffs. “Right.”
The call disconnects.
“That’s going to get you fired,” pink-haired Emily says from behind me. We all call her pink-haired Emily to differentiate her from brunette Emily who works down the hall.
I squeeze my eyes closed. “I know,” I whine. “I just couldn’t kick him when he’s down with a trite ‘Thank you for calling Regal Health.’”
She rolls her chair closer to me. “They all sign the contracts, Zoe. It’s not our fault that no one reads them. Exclusions are exclusions. It helps if you don’t think about the human element.”
I lift an eyebrow. “You pretend the person calling you isn’t human? What, like they’re all robots or something?”
She sniffs. “No. Just…there are charitable agencies that will help them, eventually. Regal Health is a business. Just because we don’t pay for something doesn’t mean they won’t eventually get treatment. I picture them figuring something else out once they know their policy won’t cover them. Like, we’re doing them a favor providing them with closure on that.”
I stare at her for a few long moments, but she’s actually serious. She’s convinced herself that everything always works out for people, that somehow, someone other than the people our customers paid to insure them will swoop in and solve this man’s problem.
Unfortunately, I know better. I don’t believe in heroes or guardian angels. The only thing at rock bottom is the rock and you. I would know. I’ve been there. And the only person who can push you off that rock and start the long and arduous climb back to ground zero is also you.
That man on the other end of the line is probably going to lose his wife. She’s going to die because he didn’t read, or maybe didn’t understand, a fifty-four-page contract written in a way that is beyond most people’s comprehension. She’s going to die because he probably didn’t have any other option anyway when he signed that contract. People’s employers often choose these accounts. She’s going to die because they’re poor and can’t pay cash.
“You’re probably right,” I say stiffly and turn back to my computer. Three more hours until my shift is over. I glance at the clock. With every tick of the second hand, it feels as though my energy is slowly being leached from my body. I’m being drained of my blood, one drop at a time. I close my eyes. I can do this. I have to do this. I need the paycheck. I need the health insurance.
“Hey, Zoe, is this you?” Pink-haired Emily rolls her chair into the aisle again, her wheels squeaking and knocking against the linoleum floor.
With a sigh, I pivot slowly, almost wishing another call would come through. Almost. I cringe when I see what’s on her screen. It’s a picture of me in a slinky, disco-ball dress, sitting on a stool with an acoustic guitar in my lap. The Barrel Room is advertising my show tonight. Of course I’m using a stage name: Aimee Oliver. I look different now that I’m healthy. Along with my decision to switch to folk-inspired pop music, more conservative clothing, and smaller venues, it’s given me a second chance at a baby music career. It’s nothing like the one I had with Raven’s Wish, and the opportunities and money are nowhere near what they were and probably never will be. But at least I have the smallest sliver of light in my life to look forward to. I’m rarely recognized as Zoe Willow these days, which is for the best.
