by Joshua Roots
I blinked at her in surprise. The Skilled had an amazing ability to “sense” each other’s power. Most of us learned early in our training to dampen our magical signatures, but there was always a small trace. It was like a scent or aura unique to the individual. Everyone processed the information differently, but to me, the signature came across as colors and temperatures.
Only the truly powerful of our kind, the ones that either wound up as Elders or senior officials, were strong enough to completely mask their magical presence. I’d seen Quinn in action before, when she wasn’t suppressing her aura, and she burned white-hot. The fact that she could not only fully hide her magical signature, but do so even while asleep gave me pause.
I peered at her. “I’m surprised I sensed you at all. You’re not getting sloppy, are you?”
“Hey, I was just waking up. Cut me some slack.” Then she set the glass on the nightstand and held out her hand to me. I allowed her to pull me back down onto the bed. She pressed herself up against me. We were silent for a while, just enjoying the comfort and warmth of each other. Eventually I was aware of her wiping her cheeks.
“It’s been a lonely few weeks,” she murmured.
“For both of us,” I whispered, trying to ignore the grisly images of the attack at HQ that sprang to mind.
“The good news is I was able to find some more of Daddy’s files.”
“And?” I tried not to get too excited.
“It’s all gibberish to me. Lots of scribbles that don’t seem connected. I’m not sure if they’ll help, but I made you a copy.”
“I’ll take anything I can get my hands on. So is that what you’ve been doing the past few weeks, cleaning out storage lockers and filing cabinets?”
“That, and doing some training.”
My ears perked up. “Oh? What kind?”
“The kind I don’t want to talk about yet,” she said in a tone that left no room for debate. “Anyway, I was worried about you after our conversation the other day. Then I heard about the attack at HQ and just... I wanted to make sure you were alright. After all, you mentioned you needed me.”
I ran a hand over her shoulder, tears stinging my eyes. “Thank you.”
She pulled away. “What’s wrong?”
I cleared my throat, then told her everything about the attack at HQ. My shock at the suddenness of it, my fear for Mick when he was hurt, my awe of Elsa. I even muscled through the part about enjoying the beating I gave the Mimic.
She listened patiently, allowing me to unload everything. When I finally ran out of steam, she pulled me close. The warmth from her touch soothed the ache in my chest.
Sitting there, listening to the beat of her heart, I realized how much I missed her. She was funny and kind, passionate and stubborn. We laughed a lot and had, on occasion, cried. I could be vulnerable around her. It should have been unnerving, but instead I found it calming.
We deserved more moments like this.
“You’ve been under a lot of stress lately,” she said quietly. “Ever since the incident at your folks’ place, you’ve had more eyes on you. There’s a lot of pressure to perform, especially now that you’re working for the Delwinn Council. It doesn’t help that you tend to bottle your emotions. Maybe you just reached your breaking point. You really should release your frustrations more often.”
“I can think of better options for that.”
She batted me lightly on the back of the head. “That’s not what I meant, smart-ass.”
I chuckled, then fell silent.
“Scared you, did it?” There was no mistaking the concern in her voice.
I nodded.
“Have you thought about seeing a professional?”
“No,” I admitted, examining my hand. The scars tingled slightly, dredging up memories of the flaming claws that had ripped through the flesh and ligaments. “And before you lecture me, I know it’s stupid to feel this way, but I’m just reluctant to see a shrink.”
“I get it. It’s awkward to pour your heart out to a complete stranger, but trust me, talking to the right person can help more than you think.”
There was a torrent of emotions on her face. It was a reminder that there was still a lot I didn’t know about her past.
But I wanted to...if she’d let me.
“Is this the voice of experience talking?” I asked.
Quinn blew out a breath. “I was very young when my father went to prison and I had a hard time understanding what was happening. The confusion and hurt really did a number on me, but didn’t manifest itself until a few years later when I started acting out. Mom took me to see someone, which helped a lot. When I lost her as well, I needed a safe place and wound up in therapy for another year.”
“You never mentioned this before.”
“Because it wasn’t relevant, not because I’m ashamed of it. Our emotions may provide an extra boost to our Skill, but they can just as easily eat us from the inside out if we’re not careful. I’m not saying you need to talk to someone today, but just promise me you’ll keep an open mind about it.”
If it were anyone else, I’d have brushed off the suggestion. Heck, I’d nearly bitten Elder Devon’s head off when he mentioned it. But Quinn had shared something very personal with me. These glimpses into her past were so rare and precious that I refused to risk cutting myself off from them.
Not to mention, she was one of the strongest, most confident people I knew and if she had needed therapy to deal with her awful past, maybe I didn’t need to be so stubborn about mine.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll consider it. But no promises.”
She smiled. “Good.”
A loud beeping noise from outside ruined the mood. Quinn extricated herself from my arms and trotted over to the window. I enjoyed the view as she peeked through the blinds.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“There’s a huge van trying to back into position. Apparently space is becoming a premium down there.” She turned around. “This must be annoying.”
“Being the Council’s latest poster children for the Reformation? Yes. Apparently the PR folks want to parade me and Elsa Klein around like trophies. The Normal ambassador is even going to give us a pony tomorrow evening.”
“A pony?”
I shrugged. “Or a Ferrari, or a medal, or maybe just a swat on the ass with a hearty ‘good game.’ Whatever she’s doing at this dinner, the Council is taking full advantage of the positive media attention. We’re even making the late-night talk show tour next week.”
“You agreed to this? Mr. I-Hate-The-Council?”
I laughed. “Yes, but only after they agreed to my terms. Arbent will be reinstated and the Council will grant me full Wizarding access to the Research Library.”
“Which means you can finally get to the secured files.”
I nodded. “Maybe now I can figure out what was going on at HQ twenty years ago and who was protecting Quaos recently.”
I felt the stab of guilt. All my efforts to find clues, to prove there was a link between her father’s betrayal and Quaos, was little solace to someone like Quinn. All she really cared about was that her father would continue running until either the Council killed him or the death sentence was lifted. Of course, given he’d been screwed over by them repeatedly, I was willing to bet he’d never choose to come back into the fold no matter what the Council said.
“Do you think your new set of permissions will actually help you find what you’re searching for?” she asked.
I shrugged. “It certainly can’t hurt. Of course, my plans may have to wait until Elsa and I complete our little PR tour,” I added with a grimace.
“You’d rather be researching.” It wasn’t a question.
“I’d rather be doing anything else. Researching, rift repair, learning to macramé.”
Quinn placed a hand on mine. “It’s okay for you to take a break every once in a while.”
A heaviness settled into my chest. “I know. I just hate th
e thought that my team is going to be on the front lines doing something productive while I’m gallivanting around the country.”
“You’re still repairing a rift, Marcus,” she said. “Only this is one that has existed for generations.”
“True, but it’s a lot harder to bridge the gap between Normals and the Skilled than it is to stitch reality back together.”
“Maybe so, but if anyone has to do it, I’m glad it’s you.”
My insides warmed. We fell into silence once again.
“I’ve missed this,” she whispered, leaning her head on my shoulder.
“Me too. Cuddling with my sword just isn’t the same.”
She pulled back with a grin. “Is that a euphemism, Mr. Shifter?”
“Now it is,” I said. She snickered, but my smile slowly faded as I finally screwed up the courage to say what had been on my mind for weeks. “Listen, I’ve been wanting to talk with you for a while, but the phone is never good for this sort of thing.”
Her face fell. “Dammit.”
My heart stopped, then restarted at double its normal pace. “It’s nothing bad, I just wanted to talk about us. You know, have the You’re-My-Shmoopsie-Bosom-So-Let’s-Have-Liquid-Hot-Monkey-Sex-Only-With-Each-Other talk. Uh, those are Steve’s words, not mine.”
Her eyebrows ticked up. “You’ve been talking to Steve about us?”
My ears burned with embarrassment. “Not details or anything, but, you know, guy stuff. Man-to-man talk.”
“That’s...kind of sweet, actually.”
I felt a huge rush of relief.
“But I’m not sure now is the right time for us to get into titles or anything.” Her voice tightened almost as much as her shoulders.
The relief was immediately replaced with tension. “Why not?”
Quinn bit her lower lip. “Things are difficult for me. Between the Council staying on my case about my father and your newfound fame, I think we’re going in separate directions.”
The bottom fell out of my heart. “Wait, are you saying we need a break?”
She shook her head. “Of course not. It’s just that we both have a lot on our emotional plates and I don’t want us to feel guilty for being unable to fulfill promises we made before either of us was ready. The spotlight that you’ve been pushed into doesn’t help.”
“Because there’s too much attention?”
“Yes. The less people hounding me right now, the better.”
I started to speak, but she held up a hand.
“I want to talk about ‘us,’ Marcus. I really do. Just not tonight. Okay?”
There were a thousand responses running through my head and all of them screamed that no, it wasn’t okay. I was positive our connection was more than just a fling. But without definition, we’d continue to hang in the gray area between love and lust. I’d been there before, only to lose that person to my friend. The last thing I wanted was to face that pain once again.
But I was also terrified to press the issue. Our relationship, if that’s what we could call it, was more natural than what I’d had with Carrie. Quinn and I clicked in a way I’d never experienced before and I didn’t want to screw that up. As such, I hadn’t made much of a fuss when she’d decided to head off in search of some direction. And thus far, she’d been good to her word, so if she swore we’d have the “us” talk at some point, then we’d have it. I might not like it, but actions spoke louder than words. She’d come back to me because I needed her to be around.
I was no expert, but that sounded a lot like love.
“Okay,” I said.
She sighed in relief and pressed against me once more. “Thank you.” Her voice was thick with emotion.
“My invitation for the Ambassador’s gig says ‘Plus One,’ but I’m guessing you don’t want to be my date to it. Same with the Reformation Ball coming up.”
“I’ll pass, but I appreciate the invite.”
I wasn’t surprised, but I was disappointed. “I figured. There’s going to be a lot of Council members, Elders and press at both functions. But for the record, you’re the only one I want to Plus One with.”
She squeezed me. “Ditto.”
“I’ll admit, I was hoping to show you off in a slinky black cocktail dress.”
“Someday, maybe. I will, however, be with you in spirit. More important,” she said, lowering her voice, “I’m here with you now. If you don’t mind me being your Plus One for this evening.”
I sighed dramatically. “If you must.”
Quinn laughed and then we shut out the world for a few hours.
Chapter Eight
A Little Dinner, A Little Dancing
She was gone long before the sun rose the next morning. Without her near, the bed felt cold and empty. I rolled onto my back, staring at the ceiling, mulling over our non-conversation. How long would we postpone things? I certainly appreciated her opinions and agreed with her reasons, but it just sucked.
Sunlight streamed through the window by the time I stopped moping and forced myself to leave the comfort of the thick blankets. I peeked through the blinds, noting the dramatic increase in news vans. Deciding that the last thing I wanted to do was field questions, I trudged downstairs, fired up a pot of coffee, and poured myself a bowl of cereal.
In the middle of the kitchen table, next to the box of stale donuts, was a large stack of papers. The sticky on top simply read See you soon in Quinn’s small, loopy handwriting. I set the message aside, reminding myself to put it in the shoebox of mementos I kept hidden in the closet, then flipped through Simeon’s notes.
Quinn was right, there was a lot of gibberish. I recognized some of the Latin, which proved I hadn’t slept through all my classes during training, but the meaning of the phrases was lost on me.
Also lost were the names of the different spells. The Skilled learned the common language of Latin, but once we chose our specialty, our focus shifted to specifics of the branch.
A subset of Summoning, Necromancy required a level of dedication and study that was only rivaled by Healers. And, just like the medical profession, it seemed to have its own language.
I read through the notes two more times, jotting down the few items that I actually understood. Quinn’s name popped up occasionally, but it looked more like reminders to pick her up from school or get medication.
Henry Thames, the Wizard who served as liaison for Simeon’s team, was also mentioned frequently. No surprise there since he was the only Council point of contact for Simeon’s clandestine research. A couple other familiar names appeared like Devon, Rancin and Watkins. So too were other random names that could have been team members, associates, or his own middle name for all I knew.
There were also question marks around an unnamed city in Maryland, but that meant absolutely nothing.
The problem with cold cases was that they went cold for a reason. Another hour of flipping through notes and I was bored to tears.
Wondering if Devon had come through for me yet, I set the papers aside and logged into the Council’s intranet website.
My inbox was packed, crammed to the digital limits with hundreds of new messages. Most of them from peers or well-wishers who wanted my spin on the attack. I skimmed over them, wondering how best to respond, if at all.
A third of the way down the list of new messages, I spotted one from the Research Library—a generic letter congratulating me on being approved for full Wizarding credentials. It went on to state that it would take at least twenty-four hours to process everything and another day or so to finish my badge. The badge issue didn’t bother me because I could still use my credentials without it.
By noon the next day, I’d be knee deep in data.
I smiled, grateful that the Council was keeping up their end of the bargain.
The doorbell rang. I glanced at the clock on the stove and frowned. It was too early and I wasn’t caffeinated enough to be social.
It rang again, then a third time.
I trie
d to ignore it, but whoever was mashing the button just wouldn’t give up. Furious at the violation of my morning peace, I stomped downstairs.
“Who the hell do you people think you are?” I snapped, yanking open the door.
A handsome man with neatly trimmed blond hair and an expensive suit greeted me.
“Andrew Coyne.” He handed me his card. “Your PR manager for the next couple of weeks.”
My face flushed with heat. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”
“No offense taken, Warlock Shifter. In my business, timing is everything. May I come in?”
I looked from the card to him, then at the reporters and protesters across the street. “What’s up with them? They were all over my doorstep last night, now they’re hanging back like I have rabies. You have something to do with it?”
The barest hint of a grin tugged at his mouth. “I may have mentioned something about certain trespassing laws in the Commonwealth of Virginia, yes.”
I beamed, stepping aside. “Forget just coming in. For that kind of miracle, you can sleep in a spare bedroom.”
“Thank you,” he said as he entered. “My husband snores like a lumberjack, so I might take you up on that offer.”
I laughed, immediately falling into platonic love with the guy.
“Can I offer you anything?” I asked, escorting him to the kitchen. “Coffee? Cereal? A moldy donut?”
“I’m fine, thank you. I still have to visit with Elsa Klein, so I’ll keep things short. For starters, here is your basic information packet.” He handed me a large, faux-leather binder with dozens of colored tabs inside. “You’ll find everything you need for the next few weeks. Schedule of events, appearances, important contact information, etc. We operate on a stoplight system for color-coding. Dates or venues that are definitive are under the green tabs. Tentative ones are yellow and unlikely events are in red. As you can see, the majority is yellow, but I have no doubt we can change that. I sent this to you electronically as well, but I assume your inbox is overwhelmed.”
“You assume correctly.” I examined the packet. “This is way more complicated than the schedule from our own PR people.”
