Chapter 50
HARPER
Delacourt is making small talk. That fake-comforting patter medics strike up when trying to distract you from whatever procedure they’re about to do.
I’ve realised too late there was sedative somewhere in my breakfast (the water?) because it sounds as though she’s speaking from the shore while I’m rolling in the deep.
There’s a roaring like waves in my ears and my attention drifts away to Green Point.
My surfer friends there. Jonny Maloney’s tattoo parlor where I inked myself with power.
My mind struggles to remember something important. This Delacourt woman, and … my power?
‘… working on this research track for years,’ Delacourt is saying as she helps me recline on a bed. It’s not a proper bed, but one with metal legs that end in wheels. A hospital bed. But there’s nothing wrong with me, so why would I be in a hospital?
‘It was a curiosity project at first, using blood samples from magical clients who passed through my regular clinic. I was a hematologist, started after my little sister died of leukemia, and I used to dream of curing blood cancers. It was only when my brother married a witch that I became curious about blood as an agent of magical potency. Witches do things with their blood. Which got me thinking. We know you can’t identify magical persons through their DNA – there’d be a Nobel in that, I’m sure.
Or maybe a prison sentence, because along with DNA testing would come gene editing, and the possibility of creating witches. I imagine that’d be banned right away.’
My brain is blurry, but if I concentrate really hard things jump briefly back into focus.
‘But yes, witches can do things with their blood. So rather than looking at what magical people’s blood contained, or was made up of, I began to explore how it worked.
Its effects. You can imagine how precious the new US database is going to be as a research tool.
It’s something the drug companies have been dreaming of for years.
Very far-sighted of America to create the world’s first and ensure it’s truly comprehensive. ’
‘I don’t consent,’ I say loudly, in a moment of lucidity.
Delacourt pauses. Frowns. ‘But this is your signature?’
She swipes across a tablet, and this would be my chance to … move. For some important reason. But I can’t. My limbs are heavy and my head is leaden. Think, Harper!
‘You gave your authorisation to Mr Barr of the Moot.’
‘Barr. Barr-stard.’ I roll my head on a neck gone weak, and giggle, then clarity follows. ‘You want to destroy magic. Why is the Moot co-operating with you?’
I recognise Delacourt’s expression as affront. Affront. I’m not completely doped up if I can use words like that.
‘Not destroy,’ she says, as she motions to an assistant, who wheels over a trolley topped by one of those monitoring arrays.
The ones with the heart rate and blood-pressure trackers that always spasm before flatlining with a deafening alarm in hospital dramas.
I try to roll away from the hands that reach to affix monitoring discs to my skin, but can’t co-ordinate my body.
I’m so fucked. Hopefully the monitor will explode the minute it picks up my racing heart.
‘My work is all about the management of magical presentation. The binding system imposed by magicals can be reversed by magicals, while the stripping of ability altogether can be profoundly traumatic for affected individuals. The intervention I’m developing will remove the risk of the abuse of bindings, and it will be far more humane than the current alternative in which the nullification of ability is required. ’
‘Nullification?’ I echo dumbly.
‘Yes. You’re in the second wave of Phase 1 volunteers.
And I’m so excited to have you participate, given your heritage.
My first wave volunteers were delighted with the results.
One is very religious, and thought their ability was a sin; another was afraid of it after an unfortunate accidental manifestation; the third was marrying a woman whose family reject witchcraft, and he wanted to take on her values.
They couldn’t wait to have it gone, so you’ll be an excellent … ’
She trails off, and my sluggish brain rouses itself to complete her sentence.
‘Contrast,’ I say. ‘I don’t want my magic gone so I’ll be an excellent contrast. So you can see how your “intervention” works on people who want to keep their magic. You know I don’t consent. You know that signature’s fake.’
Delacourt frowns again, as if one of her machines malfunctioned. ‘Min Yi,’ she says. ‘Let’s get the Propofol intravenous, shall we?’
In the corner of my eye I glimpse bamboo-green scrubs and recognise the young doctor from last night, my hope fading as quickly as it bloomed that this might be a principled junior prepared to argue about consent with her clinical lead. Min Yi gives me a reassuring grin and a thumbs up.
‘This won’t hurt,’ she says brightly, readying a cannula.
The needle’s stab into the back of my hand isn’t what I’m afraid of.