Daniela

Daniela floated, barely aware of her father’s, or anyone else’s, visits. She didn’t know where she was, or even why she was there—just that she was alive and in pain. It was a strange surreal feeling. Like she was sleeping and not sleeping at the same time, her awareness of reality so tenuous that it hardly existed at all. Except for the pain . . . that was the one thing that kept her tethered to what was left of herself. The damage to her anterior insular cortex had been severe—had anyone done an MRI of her brain, they’d have seen a lesion the size of a quarter there.

Daniela could not quite remember what had happened to her, and she was only aware of the continued damage she was being unwittingly subjected to by the clinic staff because it hurt—and the pain brought her closer to reality. The men and women treating her didn’t know that every time they touched her, they were only making her worse. That she was an empath, a very powerful one, and now that magic had returned to the world, instead of just her hands, her whole body had become a conduit for her empathic talents.

Touch her arm to take blood—damage done.

Lift her up to change the sheets of her bed—damage done.

Check her pulse—damage done.

The list went on and on—and all the damage done would be a constant reminder that the gloves she’d worn for most of her life would not be able to protect her anymore.

That she was, for all intents and purposes . . . untouchable.