Chapter 11 Train Wreck
I collapse into dreamless sleep and wake resolved to be more careful.
I doubt the demon pursuing my power is gone, but I know now that I can beat him and whatever other threats he sends my way.
I while away my Sunday on poor housekeeping efforts, more focused on what to do about Muya than my bathroom’s cleanliness.
He’s a demon by his own admission. A demon of ignorance.
And it’s true that ever since I freed him, I’ve been able to use his powers, but that doesn’t mean we’re on the same side.
He could be playing me. It’s not lost on me that he’s ultimately trying to take my powers—but at least he has a claim to them.
Though I didn’t consciously steal them, I do feel very slightly guilty for taking them.
Enough to give him the benefit of the doubt at least.
For the next few days, I get lost in the chaos of the clinic.
The protesters seem normal, without magical influence controlling them, so I deal with the usual—counseling patients, fielding emails from donors explaining how they just can’t find the money for us this year, and talking to partners about volunteers.
By Wednesday, I’ve relaxed enough into the regular rhythm of my daily life that I don’t scan my surroundings for magic. I don’t think about demons. And… I glance at my phone while crossing the street to read a text from Aai.
Haven’t heard from you
in a bit, you okay?
Are you eating?
“Jump!” someone shouts, and I dive forward on instinct. A car screams past me, so close that the side mirror glances against my jacket.
“What the fuck?” I shout.
The woman in the car is covered in magic, so obviously demonic it nauseates me.
Muya’s hand is on my elbow, and I realize he was the one who warned me.
The car backs up, as if to take a second pass at me.
When I blink, I feel a stretcher underneath me.
Time to keep my eyes wide open. Muya and I both speed-walk in the direction of the clinic.
The car seems poised to run at us again, but for some reason it’s driving toward us at approximately three miles an hour.
“What is happening?” I demand.
“They’re trying to kill you,” he mutters. Then he shouts over his shoulder, “If you kill her, the magic dies, too!”
“I wouldn’t want to think you’re saving me for altruistic reasons,” I say, and his mouth twitches slightly.
“You’re taking this well.”
It’s not my closest call with a car, but I’d rather not think about that. “Why isn’t it working?”
“The demon controlling her driving is strong. And mad,” Muya grits out. Only now do I hear the strain in his voice.
“Demon-on-demon violence, huh?” I ask.
The car is starting to speed up, and it drives over the curb and onto the sidewalk. The clinic is still a thirty second sprint away. If Muya fails, I’m dead. It’s instinct that motivates me to help, a long-buried urge to survive.
You have no idea why you’re here. You don’t want to be here. You don’t know why you’re here.
The car stops.
The woman inside rolls down her window to yell, “Get out of my way!”
“You almost hit me!” I shout back.
“Oh, so you’re one of those crazy feminists?” she replies. “Making things up. Always needing to be the victim!” She lays on the horn and flips me off. I flip her off right back. She reverses at top speed, and the moment she’s on the road she tears away. Muya sighs in relief.
“You’re not very strong,” he says. “But at least you tried to help me save you. Whoever it is, his magic is powerful. And he’s using a fair amount of it to obscure his true identity by sending proxies on his behalf.”
“How does he keep finding these people?”
“Some temporary mind-bending, maybe making deals with people who serve a larger role in his plans, there’s no way to know.”
“Can you figure out who it is? Stop it at the source?”
“I’m afraid that’s seeming more and more dangerous. I’d rather just keep you alive long enough to reclaim my power and be on my way.”
“Was what you said to that woman true? That my power would die with me?”
“It is, and I don’t trust you to stay alive on your own. You’ll die with my power and condemn me.” His voice conveys his deep annoyance at having to watch over such an inconvenient, squishy vessel.
“Step away from her!” a voice booms, and I turn to see Jeff, approaching me in a neon vest. We jog toward the safe ground of the clinic parking lot.
“Yes, I’m the real threat,” Muya says drily for only me to hear. He shoves me forward a little bit, and when I turn to tell him to stop, he’s gone.
“Was that man being aggressive to you?” Jeff asks, looking around. He seems as confused as I am about Muya’s disappearing act. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say, knowing there’s nothing he could do about it anyway.
I run inside to grab my vest, then take my place on the edge of the clinic property nearest to the sidewalk, arms crossed, staring down the protesters.
There are a lot of large dudes with big beards here today, their gory signs out in full resplendence.
They’re definitely the most likely to get violent, but I actually don’t mind facing off against them as much as I do the women.
These types of men are so off-putting, escalating immediately into shouting and threats, that nobody actually pays them any mind.
It’s the soft-spoken, suburban mom-types who are most convincing—and thus, most dangerous to our patients.
They lie with calm tongues, claiming moral authority as mothers. I see a couple of them out today.
Sure enough, the moment a patient walks by, one of these woman hustles forward, holding a flyer. I squint at her, but she looks perfectly ordinary.
“Hi, hon,” she says. “Are you here for the clinic?”
The patient, a young white woman, nods uncertainly, as I step up to her side. “Just keep walking,” I say softly. “They can’t bother you on clinic property.”
“You don’t have to go in there,” the woman says.
“They won’t tell you how many patients have died because it’ll scare you away.
And they’ll charge you money to hurt you.
We have a facility set up just one stop down the Red Line that offers free ultrasounds and pregnancy counseling about all your options. ”
“Free ultrasounds?” the patient echoes.
“Yes, hon. We believe pregnancy is a miracle. I have three little miracles myself. We don’t try to profit off you.”
The patient looks to me. I’ve been slowly herding us toward the property line, and we’re just a few steps away now. “How many of your patients have died?”
“None,” I say. “Of course, we’ve treated thousands of women, so it’s possible some have died from any number of reasons later on. But we have never had a patient die from any care we provide here.”
The patient turns back to the protester. “Your clinic, can I have an abortion done there, if that’s what I want?”
The woman falters. “We can give you a free ultrasound and counseling to talk through all your options. We can help you.”
“I see,” the patient says. “Thank you.” For a moment, the woman smiles, thinking she’s managed to con someone out of her appointment, but instead the patient walks confidently toward our door.
“Was what she was saying true?” the patient asks me before walking inside.
“It’s true they don’t charge for services,” I tell her honestly.
“But from what we’ve heard, they don’t even have licensed technicians to perform ultrasounds.
If you’re here for pregnancy screening or to talk options, we offer everything.
Abortions, yes, but also prenatal care, adoption counseling, whatever you want.
And of course, well-woman visits, birth control, Pap smears—I don’t want to assume.
” I’ve found it’s best to be forthright and informative. The patient brightens.
“Thanks,” she says. “I think I’m pregnant, but I have no idea what I’ll do yet. The first step is confirming, right?”
I can’t dispense individual medical advice, so I just smile. “I think Dr. Levy is in today, and she’s great at explaining things. You’re in good hands!”
The patient goes inside, and I turn back to the antis scowling at me.
I give the woman from earlier a bright grin and a little wave.
But before I can get too cocky, I hear a siren.
There’s not a lot of police or ambulance activity in this area, so I’m shocked when a Chicago police cruiser pulls up to the curb.
At least it’s not ICE—we live in fear of the day that they might show up.
It’s happened at other clinics. But we’ve been trained to respond to both ICE and police, and I draw upon that preparation as the officers angrily stalk over to me.
“Are you an employee of this clinic?”
His air of authority urges me to answer immediately, but instead I ask, “I’m sorry, officers, can I see some ID?
” The man who spoke looks incredulous and angry as he pulls out his badge, and his partner follows suit.
I make a mental note of their names, since I don’t want to grab my phone for a picture and get shot.
I’m a small brown woman, so it’s unlikely, but still. “Thank you. Am I free to leave?”
“Answer the question,” Officer Davis snaps. He’s a youngish white man with a heavy spray tan. Officer Jones, an older Black man, shifts uncomfortably behind him.
“Am I free to go?” I ask again. If I’m not, there are legal rules they have to follow. And if I am, I’m going to go inside to ask Diane to call the lawyer our clinic has on retainer.
“We’re just asking a few questions,” Officer Jones says. “We got a call that someone matching your description was shouting obscenities and threats.”
Part of me wants to point out that given the scene outside, it would be very unlikely that I’d be the one shouting anything, but I know better than to allow my words to be twisted. I weigh my options, given that repeating my question a third time is just going to piss them off.