Fire & Ink

by K. L. Noone

  "I don't know what to do."

  "I do. You should listen to me and talk to him."

  "How's Mom?" Weak deflection. Ducking away. "Did you make it to her show last weekend? I had appointments…"

  "Mom's brilliant as ever. This time it had something to do with sea-glass and mosaics, it's all over my head, modern art stuff, but she seemed excited and a lot of people came."

  "Good for her, then."

  "She wants to have us over for dinner… sometime. Next week, next month, you know Mom and scheduling. I told her you were dating someone but not who, so you can deal with that one yourself."

  "Thanks for that." The Stanton parents were long divorced, but amiably so. They'd separated when David'd been fourteen years old and Brian nine, and stayed on distant but affectionate terms. Rick Stanton had been a police officer for decades and served his community as a good-hearted if unimaginative pillar. He remained baffled by his first pair of magical sons, but loved them right along with his new decidedly not magical wife and daughter. Daisy Wildwind, previously Stanton, lived out in Santa Monica and sold beachside art, and made enough of a profit that they didn't worry. She occasionally taught art classes at the local community college, and darted from project to project and lover to lover like a sparrow: small, brown, flighty, energetic.

  He could not quite imagine either of his parents meeting Colin. His father would shuffle that moustache and gruffly shake hands and ask what kind of a job a shapeshifter might put in for a day's work. His mother would likely ask about willingness to serve as a nude model for a sea-nymph out of legend.

  They'd be happy for him, though. If this was what he wanted. If he and Colin were in love.

  He and Brian did the usual sibling bickering over the check. This got resolved when Mr. Langer, the owner, emerged from the back and informed his local witch that David Stanton need not ever pay for lunch at his place, not at all, not after his daughter was feeling so much better, and she'd be performing an original song in the school's talent show next week if he'd like to come and see.

  Brian said earnestly, "Oh, he so would," and accepted tickets. David, once again, did not kick him. Ten-year-old Maribel had gotten over that spike of night-mist fever without much trouble and had not at all been cured of her belief that she could sing like a bird—and neither had her doting father.

  He paused to refresh the anti-theft charms around the doors and windows as payment instead. He always had a pen in his pocket, and that was the work of a moment: quick renewal-marks rather than full designs. Mr. Langer tried to protest. David insisted, and eventually won, because no one ever wanted to actually argue with their local witch.

  He walked home with half a sandwich and thoughts that tried to turn themselves into hope, drenched in thick afternoon sunshine that fell like syrup over his shoulders, golden and slow.

  Love. Maybe. Yes.

  Colin wasn't home when he arrived, so he put the pastrami in the fridge, made tea, checked the calendar for any appointments and the waiting-garden for any drop-ins. His clients often came by at odd times: before or after work, when they could, when they needed him. Today was a Wednesday, and a quiet one. He did have Mrs. Robinson at five-thirty, a check-up on arthritis and a sketch that'd keep the pain at bay for another week, but nothing until then.

  He made sure the back gate swung open, inviting, blooming with catnip and comfrey. He grew a lot of his own herbs, the ones most inclined to accept magical infusion. He bought some of the rarer varieties. As an artist-witch, he mostly used them in ink: drawings that could soothe troubles, guard against nightmares, ease hurt. He could use power directly through fingertips, and occasionally did—enchanted massage and therapeutic touch and the certain things he did to Colin and no one else—but that was more personally taxing than relying on previously stored power. He wasn't that strong a witch.

  He checked various ink-stores, doing inventory, and made a couple of notes. Most of the pots'd been relabeled in Colin's writing, he noticed, not precisely neater than his own block printing but more stylish.

  The house wasn't large, but it'd come with a lovely albeit dilapidated patio. He'd had it enclosed with glass and on-command privacy spells, bought inviting sunroom furniture, and used that to meet with most clients. Nobody ever used the old-fashioned, double-wide front door, at least no one who wasn't a stranger. The tastelessly bedazzled "The Witch Is In!" sign on the gate had been a present from Brian. David had left it up on purpose.

  Colin hadn't come back yet. He hovered, irresolute, in the living room. He drank more tea.

  He'd fallen in love with the location and the views. The wide windows. The valley and the lights. He and his house sat halfway up a hill and watched the world twinkle in company. Expensive even given that they only technically counted as Los Angeles, dancing right at the edge, but worth it for the big satiny swoop of the nights, embroidered with stars above and below. He'd made the down payment in part in luck-charms and talismans and tattoo-sketches, ones that mirrored the strength of the personal wards he'd designed and wore across thighs, shoulders, heart.

  His house wore wards too, protection and peace, tasting of ginger and lavender, layered with green leaves and waterfall serenity. Lately, hints of kitten-fur warmth, of new hues, of layers made from tabby-brown and smoky silver, had twined into color and texture and warmth, buttressing his own spellwork.

  He touched those wards, felt them loop and coil around his finger: holding hands. He found himself smiling.

  He had nothing to do for a while, so he flopped into his favorite chair and picked up an academic treatise on later-period ancient Egyptian art—not boring no matter what Brian thought, and even Colin concurred, being interested in both history and cat-gods—and lost himself in artifacts of the past, waiting.

  About an hour later, around chapter six, a small streak of woodsmoke and shadow flowed through the back door, leapt across the living room, and landed on his lap, turning into Colin in the process. David, who'd had a second of warning—his wards knew his boyfriend, and the magical channel between them swelled like a river with proximity—dropped the book and caught him, nose to nose, laughing. "Hey, you're back."

  "Hi, you." Colin wriggled, unabashedly unclothed. David, who would never have the same exhibitionist streak and who also worried almost certainly too much, already had a blanket and plopped it onto his head. Colin was extra-sensitive in the moments after a change. Everything on overload, he'd said once. This could be wonderful fun when naked in bed, and a minor source of stress for David's emotions otherwise. His kitten got cold easily.

  And said interestedly, "Pastrami? Should I make a joke about sharing your meat?"

  "Yes, I saved you some, please make all the jokes, and only two onion rings, sorry. Attack of Brian." Colin Rue in his lap transcended every fantasy he'd never known he could have. Long-legged, lovely, and currently laughing, emerging from knit blanket-folds with rumpled dark hair and a mouth that'd tempted countless wizards and witches.

  Maybe not countless. A number certainly existed. He'd never asked. He wasn't sure Colin knew.

  He tried not to think about that one. Not out of jealousy—or he didn't believe so—but because something in his chest splintered, quick and cruel, when he did. He'd once upon a time seen a drunken Colin Rue being kissed by the equally intoxicated North American Arch-Mage at a coast-to-coast coven gathering, letting the man pull power from the kiss, from his body, until the annual ceremonial bonfire roared up twice its normal size and thundered with ecstasy and brought light to the world.

  Colin stretched out one infinite leg, tucked it back up. He wasn't heavy, and even if he had been David wouldn't've minded. Could hold him here in their oversized chair in lowering afternoon sunshine for as long as might be wanted. That was another truth. Indelible.

  Like light, he thought, across the world.

  He said, "Did you have a good day?"

  "I did, thank you." Colin studied him, dove in to land a kiss on the corner of his mouth: sudden
and swift as a hummingbird's dart. Sweet as nectar. "Is there something you want to ask me? Not that you have to, if you don't—I thought I felt something. Just now. But never mind. If you didn't want to."

  Layers upon layers, in those sentences. Curiosity: Colin would always be a cat. Generosity: Colin didn't want to push. Connection: they'd left that tiny shared channel, a thread of linking magic for power and protection, running crystalline between them ever since Colin'd shown back up on his doorstep, and of course emotions carried when they were close. Hesitance—and David flinched internally at that recognition. Colin didn't want to anger him? Didn't want to persist in asking, in case his new witch grew displeased or even cruel? Didn't want to be thrown from a snug harbor?

  His heart hurt, uncertain, trying to do no harm.

  "Nothing big. Only wondering what you've been up to." He ran a hand along Colin's back, tracing the curve of flexible spine, knowing every touch'd be magnified by newly-shifted nerves. "Missed you, kitten." Truth like celestial copper, drawn from stars. He had.

  "So did I," Colin agreed, shamelessly arching into the petting, "about you, though it's not as if I've been gone for weeks… you saw me this morning… oh, nice, right there…"

  "Think I did more than see you," David said, entertained through the sharpness of not-yet-and-maybe-never loss. Maybe nothing was wrong. Maybe Colin Rue wanted nothing more than this: sunshine, kisses, a local witch's sturdy hands. "Or did you forget already, and you need me to remind you…"

  The scents of honeysuckle and jasmine and starflower wove themselves into the afternoon, sunbaked, glowing.

  After, with Colin—with both of them—sticky and flushed and limp with pleasure, he rested his cheek in that silky hair, leaving his hands where they'd ended up between slim thighs, and shut his eyes. Echoes of bliss swam through their bodies. The world spun itself into sugar around them, and he thought that this must be perfection, and in that moment he knew it was true.

  Colin said drowsily, "In answer to your question, I wasn't up to anything terribly exciting. Mostly neighborhood gossip. Oh, you might want to know this one, I know Sophia from down the street has been asking you about love-spells and I know you don't do that but you won't need to even say no, she thinks her husband's been having an affair but he's not, he's taking a creative writing class."

  "Really?" Neither of them had stirred. He could listen to Colin forever, just like this.

  "Oh yes. Poetry. Secretly, at night, at the junior college. He's embarrassed that he might not be any good, but I was talking to Madam Rosa's raven and she says she overheard him mumbling bits out loud in the park and it wasn't bad, if you can trust a raven to know poetry."

  "Can you? Did you want your sandwich?" Compulsive caretaking. Couldn't help it.

  "Depends on the raven. And yes I do. But I don't want either of us to move. It's a terrible dilemma."

  "I adore you," David told him, which wasn't quite I love you but so close, so close, while he wondered if his heartbeat might be audible, "and I could—"

  The back gate rustled bluebells at him. A client. A drop-in.

  He sighed.

  Colin sighed too. "Should I put on pants? I should put on pants."

  "Probably a good idea, yeah…"

  They disentangled themselves. Clean-up happened, magically assisted. Colin said, listening, "Never mind, you have children—" and promptly turned himself back into a cat. Colin in human form generally regarded children as a mysterious alien species. David tactfully refrained from pointing out that as a cat he was excellent with them.

  That smug kitten-expression doubtless had something to do with the fact that now only David needed clean clothing. He pointed out, "You could be useful and do laundry, you know," and received an affronted glare and tail-swish.

  "I'm just saying." He unearthed non-orgasmic jeans from the bedroom hamper, and went out to the workroom. Unusually, Colin didn't follow right away. Only sat down on the living-room rug, head tilted, watching him go.

  Both Mrs. Chen and her daughter bubbled over with relief when he came in. He could see why, and smothered the urge to laugh under professionalism. Not hard, in the end. Priscilla was on the verge of tears, and so her eye-scalding fluorescent hair wasn't particularly funny. She sniffled a bit, and looked around for tissues, which he had. "Thanks…"

  "Comes with the service. Boxes of tissues, artwork, and a flower on the way out." She discovered a wobbly smile. He sat down with them on the cushioned long bench, scooping up a sketchpad and two specific inks on the way. "If you want to be a watering pot I've got some sage over there that could use it, no worries, tell me what happened?"

  He had a decent idea. Pris, at fourteen, was smarter and chubbier and more shy than a lot of her peers. He'd heard neighborhood gossip about school bullies and minor cruelties involving cheaply purchased underground hexes. Kids' stuff, but not fun for the target, and he'd been wondering whether he should step in, and if so, how.

  Priscilla sniffled again, on the brink of a full torrent at the need to explain. Her mother jumped in. "Those girls in her class, three of them, they are terrible people, always doing something to someone. Today she was leaving school and they did this. And they laughed. Laughed!"

  "Mom," Pris groaned, looking even more tragic in the face of extravagant parental indignation. "Don't, like, call anyone's parents or… it's just… just don't." That'd likely make it worse, David guessed.

  Colin sauntered in, took in the room, flicked his tail, hopped up next to Priscilla on the bench, and bumped his head into her hand. She blinked, smiled weakly, started stroking him. Colin melted onto her lap and purred.

  "Oh really," David said to him, which was completely not strange, people did talk to their pets, of course they did. "This isn't about you." Colin flipped onto his back and purred more loudly.

  The purr conjured up an idea. He'd already been sketching quietly while talking: Pris with her more usual long black hair, straight and shining, no neon orange or violet in sight. The color was fading as he worked. She hadn't quite noticed, though her mother had.

  Pen and ink. Reaching out to touch the world, to draw gleaming strands of ability toward himself, to channel the work through his hands and guide it into the shape he wanted. He knew enchantresses and witches who sung or scripted or even cooked their magic, melody or poetry or bubbling delicious stewpots of prophecy. His had always been graspable, present against his skin, shaped by his fingers like intoxicating clay.

  He drew feline eyes, quirked ears, a big fluffy lion's mane. He wasn't sketching Colin; he did not want to test the implications if he did, not with power behind it. But he did give paper Priscilla a cheerful lion-friend, imbued with sorcery and angelica and rosemary for good measure. He reached out invisibly to tap their shared well of strength for an extra final seal on the work; Colin felt like sun-warmed velvet and glitter, ancient immense depths lying indolently under dancing silvery fireworks. Sheathed claws and whipped cream. Indulgence he could fall into and never give up.

  The ink-lion sat up, shook itself, ran once around the borders of the page, then curled up and took a nap. Colin lifted his head to peek at his two-dimensional relative, and yawned.

  "He's protection." He handed the sketch over. Pris brightened up more, watching herself and her lion on the page. "He won't hurt anyone, but he will come out and roar and, um, look sort of scary. If you touch him and ask him for that. He can only do it three times, though, so be careful using it." He'd make her another one if she needed it. He hoped she wouldn't.

  Priscilla grinned at him, quick and heartfelt, one of those teenage lightning mood swings. Her hair was back to normal now. "His name's totally Sullivan. Like from the Pixar movie."

  Sullivan the lion. And why not. "He'll like that."

  Mrs. Chen thanked him, wrote a personal check—the bare minimum because he felt guilty otherwise, though he did need to buy ink and pay a mortgage—and offered to feed him dinner whenever he came over, any time, because he was always welcome, a
nd so was his nice young man, such a cute boy, too skinny, but cute. David agreed gravely, "He's very cute," and walked out with them. Priscilla was smiling again when she left, clutching her newly named protector.

  When he turned, Colin, human again, was leaning against the doorway to the main house. He'd mostly wrapped himself in a blanket, managing to transform blue-striped fluff and one bare shoulder into the fashion statement of the year. "Cute?"

  "Well, you are." More kisses. Scattered and exploratory and delicious. "No clothes?"

  "Clothes are so boring. You turned me into a lion."

  "I didn't—wait, I didn't really—that's not you, right?" He'd tried. No close resemblance. No inadvertent binding.

  "No, you didn't." Colin snuck a hand around David's neck, tugged him into another kiss. "I meant as inspiration. You made me her defender."

  "Um." It'd been a spur-of-the-moment idea. "Did you mind? It's not exactly you."

  "I like it. It's…" A pause, while wind ran in to spin sunshine through leaves. "I do like it. Funny, though. You looked at me and thought, oh, absolutely, a guardian spirit."

  "Named after a Pixar character." Something odd in Colin's tone. He couldn't place it. Slippery. "Anyway you are, aren't you, you were making her feel better. Before I did."

  "It's not about me," Colin said, not sarcastic but distant.

  "I didn't mean that," David said. "I know you were helping. Are you okay?"

  "What? Yes. Fine. Thinking. You don't need me for Mrs. Robinson, do you? In the room, I mean. You can reach my magic if you need it."

  "Well—no, I guess not, you don't have to be here, but—" He brushed stray hair out of Colin's face. Offered a small bloom of heat through his fingers as he did: a kiss. "I like having you around."

  Colin came back from wherever he'd been, and the familiar silvery shadows of those eyes melted into delight, meeting his. "You like making fun of me for chasing your laser pointer that time. One time. Are you sure you won't need me closer? You've been using your own power today. On me, too. Which you don't have to. As much as I enjoy that."