Chapter 75: Treated By Miss Ivy

I remained there for several long minutes after Alisha disappeared through the back door, staring at the neat rows of seedlings without really seeing them. The morning sun had climbed higher, warming the air and casting longer shadows across the small garden plot, but I felt cold despite the pleasant temperature.

I must have looked exactly like someone whose heart had been shattered into pieces.

Scratching my hair in frustration, I let out a long, heavy sigh that seemed to carry all the weight of my disappointment and growing desperation. The sound hung in the air for a moment before being absorbed by the peaceful morning sounds around me.

I suppose it made sense, in a twisted sort of way. If their father was as powerful as Alisha implied, it would be natural for them to return to his protection. But the fact that she hadn’t even suggested I might accompany them—hadn’t even hinted that such a thing might be possible—spoke volumes about the nature of this supposed safe haven. It was only safe for Elena and Alisha because they were his daughters, because they had value to him. The rest of us were nothing more than expendable strangers.

What kind of father inspired that mixture of fear and reluctant dependence in his own children? What kind of man had the resources for private satellites and could apparently offer protection in a world where safety was the most precious commodity?

I remembered Christopher joking about Elena and Alisha’s father, suggesting with a grin that he might be some kind of mercenary leader or crime boss based on their evasive answers about their family. At the time, I’d dismissed it as Christopher’s joke, assuming their father was simply strict or overprotective. But maybe there had been more truth in his wild theories than any of us had realized.

Lost in these troubling thoughts, I absently reached into my pocket, my fingers finding the familiar weight of the red stone I’d been carrying since that encounter with the Fire Spitter. The smooth, crystalline surface had become a nervous habit, something to occupy my hands when my mind was racing. But as I toyed with it, my index finger inadvertently scraped against one of its sharp edges.

“Shit,” I hissed, pulling my hand out of my pocket and instinctively sucking at the thin line of blood that had welled up on my fingertip. The cut wasn’t deep, but it stung with the particular intensity of unexpected wounds.

“Damn thing,” I grumbled, but my complaint died on my lips as something extraordinary happened.

A brilliant red light began pulsing from within my pants pocket, clearly visible even through the fabric. My eyes widened in shock as I quickly extracted the stone, watching in fascination and growing alarm as it pulsed with an inner fire, the crimson light seeming to match the rhythm of my own heartbeat.

“What the hell is happening?” I whispered, turning the stone over in my hands.

Since the moment I’d retrieved it from the Fire Spitter’s remains, I’d tried everything I could think of to understand its nature and purpose. I’d exposed it to heat, cold, pressure, different types of light—nothing had produced even the slightest reaction. But apparently, the solution had been as simple and primal as blood.

But why was it responding to my blood?

Then, without warning, a chill ran down my spine like ice water in my veins. The sensation was so sudden and intense that I spun around, expecting to find someone watching me from the shadows of the house or the tree line beyond the garden.

Nothing. The yard was empty except for the gentle sway of plants in the morning breeze.

But the feeling persisted—a certainty that something or someone had been observing me, studying me. The sensation didn’t seem to originate from anywhere nearby, though. It felt distant, as if whatever attention had focused on me was coming from far away, perhaps even from beyond this town entirely.

I gulped hard, my heartbeat quickening as paranoia crept through my thoughts like poison. Was I being watched? Had the stone’s activation somehow sent a signal, alerting something to my location?

No, I told myself firmly, trying to push down the rising panic. It had to be my imagination, a product of stress and the unsettling nature of the stone’s sudden activation. There was no logical reason to believe that anyone could be monitoring me from a distance.

I forced myself to focus back on the stone, which continued to pulse with that hypnotic crimson light. “Damn it, how do I stop this?” I muttered, looking around nervously to make sure no one else had noticed the supernatural light show.

In desperation, I used the edge of the stone to make another small cut on my finger, smearing fresh blood across its surface. Instead of calming the reaction, this only intensified it—the red glow deepened and quickened, becoming almost blinding in its brilliance.

“Stop it already!” I shouted in frustration.

Immediately, the light vanished, leaving the stone looking perfectly ordinary once again.

I stared at it in stunned silence. Had it actually responded to my command, or was the timing just an incredible coincidence? There was something about the abrupt cessation that suggested intent rather than chance—as if the stone had been waiting for instruction.

A weird intuition crept through my mind, a sixth sense telling me that the connection went deeper than mere blood activation. Testing this feeling, I held the stone carefully and whispered a single word: “Burn.”

Fire erupted from my palm without warning, real flames that licked hungrily at the air and sent waves of heat across my face. The shock of it caused me to reflexively release my grip, and the stone fell to the ground where it continued burning with unnatural intensity, scorching the earth around it.

“S…stop!” I shouted, and once again, the flames vanished instantly, leaving behind only a small patch of blackened soil and the acrid smell of burned earth.

I examined my palm, noting the minor burn that marked where the flames had touched my skin. The injury was superficial, but the implications were staggering. The stone wasn’t just responding to my blood—it was somehow channeling power, allowing me to manifest abilities that should have been impossible.

Was the stone sentient in some way?

The sound of footsteps approaching from behind made me flinch, and I quickly turned to see who had discovered me.

Miss Ivy emerged from the house, her presence as imposing as ever despite her casual attire. She wore simple dark pants and a cream-colored blouse, her dirty blonde hair braided to one side in a style that somehow managed to look both practical and elegant. Her hazel eyes fixed on me with that same unreadable intensity she always carried, as if she could see through facades and pretenses to the truth beneath.

An uncomfortable silence stretched between us as she approached, her gaze methodical and assessing. When she reached me, her attention immediately shifted to my hands, taking in the minor burn on my palm and the fresh cut on my finger.

Without a word, she grasped my wrist with surprising gentleness, turning my hand to examine the injuries more closely. Her touch was clinical but not unkind, the hands of someone accustomed to treating wounds and assessing damage.

“I cut myself on the plants,” I blurted out, feeling compelled to offer some explanation for the obvious inconsistencies in my injuries.

“I see,” she replied simply.

Clearly she didn’t believe me at all.

She’d obviously noticed that the burn pattern didn’t match anything that could be caused by garden plants, and the precision of the cut suggested something far sharper than thorns or branches.

“Get inside,” she said, releasing my wrist and turning toward the house. “I’ll treat it.”

Her voice carried that same authoritative quality I’d noticed before, a deep resonance that seemed to brook no argument. I found myself nodding and following almost automatically, nearly blurting out “Yes, ma’am” like a chastised child responding to a stern parent.

There was something about Miss Ivy that commanded respect and obedience, an aura of competence and control that made it seem natural to defer to her judgment. Whether it was her medical background, her unflappable demeanor, or simply the way she carried herself, she projected an authority that was difficult to resist.

Before following her inside, however, I glanced down at the stone lying on the scorched patch of earth. An idea occurred to me—another test of the connection I’d discovered.

Looking around to make sure Miss Ivy had gone inside and no one else was watching, I extended my hand toward the stone and whispered, “Come.”

The stone immediately lifted from the ground and flew through the air to land in my palm with perfect precision, as if drawn by an invisible thread.

“Holy shit,” I breathed, staring at the innocuous-looking crystal that had just demonstrated impossible powers.

I quickly slipped it back into my pocket. This changed everything. The stone wasn’t just a curiosity or a trophy from a defeated enemy—it was a weapon.

I need a few more test however to see what it was capable of. Until then I will keep it. It really can be useful.

Anyway.

I headed back inside the house.

Inside the house, the atmosphere had settled somewhat from the earlier drama. I could hear muffled voices from upstairs—Rachel’s gentle tones mixing with Rebecca’s more agitated responses as they worked through their sister conflict. The kitchen had been cleaned, dishes put away.

Miss Ivy had set up what looked like an impromptu medical station on the living room couch, a small black medical kit open beside her with its contents neatly organized. The sight reminded me that she’d been indeed a nurse and at Lexington Charter on top of that.

“Sit,” she instructed, patting the cushion beside her.

I nodded and settled onto the couch, noting how her presence seemed to command the space around her. Even in this casual domestic setting, there was something inherently authoritative about the way she carried herself,.

She opened the medical kit with practiced efficiency and reached for my injured hand. The first aid supplies were better organized than anything I’d expected to find in our makeshift household—clearly she’d maintained her professional standards even in these chaotic circumstances.

She began with the burn on my palm, applying what appeared to be a soothing ointment with a cotton swab. The medication was cool against the heated skin, and I couldn’t suppress a slight groan of relief as it began to numb the sting. Her touch was gentle but confident, the hands of someone who had treated countless injuries and knew exactly how much pressure to apply.

“This might sting a bit more,” she warned quietly before wrapping the palm carefully with sterile bandages, securing them with medical tape that she cut to precise lengths.

Next, she turned her attention to the cut on my finger, cleaning it with an antiseptic that did indeed sting more than the ointment. But her movements remained steady and sure, and I found myself relaxing despite the minor discomfort.

I stayed perfectly still as I watched her work, using the opportunity to really observe her for perhaps the first time since we’d been living together. Miss Ivy had always maintained a certain distance from the group, helpful but reserved, professional even in our informal household arrangement.

She was in her mid-twenties, I guessed, though there was something timeless about her features that made it difficult to pin down her exact age. Without makeup or flashy clothing, her natural beauty was striking in its simplicity. Her dirty blonde hair caught the light streaming through the windows, and her hazel eyes held depths that suggested intelligence and experience far beyond her years.

There was a calmness about her that I found deeply appealing—not the forced cheerfulness that some people adopted to cope with trauma, but genuine serenity. Even her breathing seemed measured and controlled, as if she’d learned to regulate even the most basic functions to maintain her center.

“Miss Ivy,” I began, then paused as she glanced up at me with a slight raise of her eyebrow. “May I ask you a question?”

“You don’t need to call me ’Miss,’” she replied, returning her attention to my finger as she applied a smaller bandage. “I’m not a nurse anymore, and you aren’t my patient in any official capacity.”

“Right, then… Ivy,” I said, testing the name and finding it felt more natural without the formal title. “Can I ask you something?”

“That depends on what you want to know,” she said.

I chose my words carefully, aware that I was venturing into potentially sensitive territory. “Don’t you have family or loved ones you want to find? We haven’t talked much over the past two weeks, so I’ve wondered…”

Ivy’s hands paused for just a moment in their work, so briefly that I might have imagined it. When she spoke, her voice maintained its characteristic control, but I caught a hint of something underneath—resignation, perhaps, or old disappointment.

“I have a large family,” she said simply. “They probably wouldn’t even notice I’m gone.”

The casual way she delivered this statement made it somehow more devastating than if she’d shown emotion. I realized she belonged to the same category as most of us—the group of people with complicated, dysfunctional family situations. Me with my absent father, Rachel and Rebecca with their obvious sisterly tensions and also trash of father, Elena and Alisha with their mysterious and apparently dangerous father, Sydney with her uncaring parents we were all refugees from broken homes in one way or another.

While I was processing this revelation, Ivy had finished treating my injuries and was already packing up her medical kit with the same methodical precision she’d shown in setting it up. She clearly considered our interaction complete and was preparing to leave.

But something made me reach out and catch her arm before she could stand. “W..wait.”

She looked down at my hand on her arm, her expression unreadable. The contact felt electric somehow, as if her skin carried some kind of charge that made my fingertips tingle.

I quickly released her. “S…sorry, I just wanted to talk a bit more.”

Instead of leaving as I’d expected, Ivy settled back onto the couch and fixed me with that steady, patient gaze.

“Since I go outside frequently for supply runs and scouting,” I began, trying to organize my thoughts, “I was wondering if there’s anything specific you need that I could help you get. You do so much for everyone in the house, but you never ask for anything in return. I’d like to do something for you, think of it as thanks for treating my hand.”

I lifted my newly bandaged hand as evidence of her care, and she followed the gesture with her eyes before returning to study my face.

Her scrutiny was intense but not uncomfortable—more like being examined by someone who was genuinely trying to understand your motivations rather than judge them. The silence stretched between us, but it felt contemplative rather than awkward.

“Why do you want to help me?” She asked finally.

The question caught me off guard in its directness. I fumbled for an answer that would encompass the complex mixture of gratitude, attraction, and simple human decency that motivated my offer.

“Well, like I said, you help everyone without asking for anything in return. You maintain your medical supplies, you’ve treated injuries, you help with cooking and cleaning… you never complain or make demands. It seems only fair that someone should look out for you too.”

Ivy studied my face for a long moment, those hazel eyes seeming to look straight through to my soul. Whatever she saw there must have satisfied some internal criteria, because she nodded slightly.

“There might be something,” she said at last.

Relief and eagerness flooded through me. Finally, a chance to do something meaningful for someone who had been nothing but helpful and professional. “Go ahead, I’ll help with whatever you need.”

“The next time you have sex with one of your women,” Ivy said with the same calm, clinical tone she’d used to discuss antiseptic application, “I want to assist.”

My smile froze on my face along with every other muscle in my body. The words hung in the air like a physical presence, so shocking that I couldn’t immediately process their meaning. Had she really just said what I thought she’d said?

Without any change in expression, Ivy stood up from the couch, collected her medical kit, and walked toward the stairs with the same measured pace she used for everything else. She left me sitting there in stunned silence, my mouth slightly open, my brain refusing to function properly.

It wasn’t until I heard her door close that my mind finally caught up with reality, and when it did, I felt my face burn with a crimson flush that probably rivaled the red stone’s glow.

WHAT THE HELL?!

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