by Parker Foye
Not convinced by his argument but having no other, West slept.
A scream woke him, vibrating through his bones. Panicked, West fell out of bed onto four furry feet, defensive instincts working to protect his sluggish brain. He nudged the door open with his nose, using the wolf-friendly handle, and rushed into the cool night. The screeching followed, but he heard it from inside his head, like the echo of a dream. It wasn’t until he passed the first key marker, etched on a tree stump, that he realized the noise came from the protection spell.
Someone had breached the spell perimeter.
Maybe a bear. Maybe a coyote, cold and hungry and following its nose. Anything smaller, a skunk or bird, wouldn’t make the alarms shriek. West considered the possibilities as he followed his nose to the sulfurous smell of broken magic, running through the forest under the light of the waxing moon. Branches splintered beneath his paws, and small night creatures scuttled from his path, chittering with nerves and reproach. He rarely ran in the forest, not wanting to scare local wildlife away from the habitat they’d cultivated under Metaschemata Law protection in territory unclaimed by any pack. West knew he lived at the little cabin by some kind of grace, and he’d be out on his tail if anyone discovered an heir to the Hargreaves pack gamboling around outside of his territory. West needed to live with his head down. Stay out of trouble.
But what to do when trouble found him first?
Because trouble had crashed into the forest and left blood in its wake. West stumbled to a halt when he found a doe with her belly shredded, her glassy eyes staring in his direction, accusations in her still face. As West followed the trail of viscera, he found smaller animals, unrecognizable by anything other than scent. Fur and flesh mashed into the earth. Nothing eaten. His own fur bristled at the waste, and he slowed to a stalk. A rampage?
Breaking into a clearing by the stream, West recoiled at the sudden stench of tar and tea. Rabid. He nearly fell over his tail in the haste of his retreat and bit back a yelp at the sting of pain before ducking his head and making for the abandoned leather jacket on the bank. Rabid stink seeped from the folds of the fabric, and he held his breath as he nosed through it, searching for something to identify the asshole who’d spoiled his forest.
The jacket held no wallet or phone, and Rabid obliterated all other scents, making his search fruitless. West sat on his haunches and chewed on a howl, keeping it in his chest. Asshole had stumbled into the territory, wild with Rabid, and broken the protections on West’s home for—what? Food they didn’t intend to eat? For the joy of the slaughter?
West curled nose to tail and let out a sigh that ruffled his fur. The shrieking stopped, as if realizing he’d found the source of the breach. Magic.
He tucked his nose beneath his paw and tried to block the scent of Rabid by concentrating instead on grass and water, but blood seeped into his perception. He could taste it in the back of his throat, and he jumped to his paws, not ready for the memories the scent evoked. Flicking his tail, West stretched into human shape and its duller senses. Always strange to change perspective, it took a moment to recalibrate to standing nearly six feet from the soil instead of three.
Night breezes curled around West’s naked body and brushed through his messy hair. The cold refreshed him and made him think of the snug nest of blankets waiting at the cabin, more an indulgence than a necessity. There’d be no more blankets if those kids had followed him home. He should’ve incapacitated them and waited for the Law to come. He wouldn’t have needed to be overly violent; his father had taught West ways to restrain lycans for short periods of time. A nerve strike could be clean, if applied correctly.
West clenched his jaw and looked away from the leather jacket, another dead animal left behind by whoever had broken the protection spells. It didn’t matter who so much as it mattered who might find West once his scent could travel on the wind. The diner had so many people passing through, West barely smelled like himself after a shift, and Joe’s strong ocean scent did the rest. But with the perimeter breached, his father’s pack could find him at the cabin and take West away from the home he’d tried to build.
They wouldn’t hurt him, not if he didn’t resist. Father never used his fists when his words would do. It had been his words that chased West’s mother away. West didn’t think he could bear more of his father’s words—nor the words turned to decree, as they had the night he left. Him and Dana. Marriage, his father had said.
West might have lived too long under his father’s paw, but he knew he wasn’t the marrying type.
And then the fight with Lyle, his older brother, vying with West for the place of alpha, like West had ever been interested, and speaking of Dana like a hind to chase.
West clenched his jaw. He needed a mage to refresh the wards. The work wouldn’t come cheap, but the matter of payment could be resolved later. There were other problems more pressing.
Dropping to four paws, West ran for home. He took the long way, leaving the doe, but vowed to return in the morning to bury her. As he ran, he kept his ears and nose open, alert for anything new in the forest. Nothing struck between the clearing and the cabin, and West slipped inside the open door and switched to a shape with fingers. He considered his laptop and the possibility of asking Professor Wylie for help—the man must have plenty of contacts in the meta community—but his gaze stuttered on his phone, sitting on the stack of mildewed books by his bed.
He knew someone who would definitely have the right contacts. If he dared ask.
Chewing his lower lip, West navigated to the call screen on his phone. Missed calls: Dana, Dana, Dana. There’d been times he’d regretted giving her his number, but usually he talked himself out of getting a new one. They’d been friends since they were pups, and the betrothal had been as much a betrayal of her as of him.
But West had never responded to her calls. He hadn’t been a very good friend. Still wasn’t. Holding his breath, West sent a quick text. Need a reliable mage in Ontario. Don’t ask why.
Expecting no response until morning, if at all, West curled in his blankets to try to sleep, despite his skin itching with nerves and anger. When his phone buzzed across the wooden floor less than ten minutes later, he pounced on it and squinted at the glow to read Dana’s response. Julian Colquhoun. Level 6. Based in Toronto. Miss you.
West opened a message to respond. Closed it. Opened it again and typed rapidly before he could think better of the idea. Miss you.
Turning off the phone, West hunted through the cabin for a pen. He finally found one beneath an overturned bowl and scribbled the mage’s name on a receipt from his work pants. Julian Colquhoun. In the morning, before work, West would go online for the mage’s contact details, get in touch, and hopefully arrange an appointment to refresh the wards. He’d need to find a way to pay the mage for his services, but that was tomorrow’s problem. If the mage came recommended by Dana, he should be reliable. West needed someone reliable.
The longer he stayed in the human world, the more West realized he needed a lot of things.
Chapter Two
TWO weeks into his latest vacation, Julian didn’t want for anything.
“Okay,” he amended. “Maybe I need one more of those delicious cocktails. The orange one with the umbrella.” He waved his empty glass at Lauren, his business partner, who’d tracked him to his hotel in Las Vegas. “You know the one?”
“Does it look like I know the one?”
Lazing on the sun lounger, Julian affected a pout. He sipped the dregs from his glass and set it down, letting his head loll to the side.
“I think I’m fading away—”
“Jesus Christ—”
“Yes. Yes, I’m sure, now. These are my last—”
Lauren raised her voice, speaking quickly. “If you think for one second I’m going to fetch your bloody cocktail, you’re more delusional than I supposed. Will you just listen to me? Five minutes, that’s all I need. Five minutes, and you can go back to your overpriced cocktails
and underdressed waiters, and I can get back to the shop, and we’ll both be over the bloody moon. All right?”
Sitting up, Julian pushed his sunglasses into place. They’d slipped while he was being dramatic, and he rubbed the indentation on the bridge of his nose.
“All right. Didn’t realize you felt so strongly, to be honest. What’s this about?”
Lauren rubbed her face, careful with her eye makeup. “Did you truly not read any of your emails?”
“I’ve been on vacation.”
“And we agreed you’d—Look.” Lauren opened her eyes, then narrowed them at him. “Your lawyer has been calling every other day. I hope to Christ you don’t get billed for her time, because even with your trust fund and the business, you’ll be out on your ear by Christmas.”
“Don’t forget the teaching—”
“Your little side project is hardly keeping you in umbrella drinks, Julian. Don’t forget, I deal with your accounts. And I’ve been dealing with you since bloody school, so don’t start.”
Julian huffed out a breath. Lauren had a point. He sat up on the lounger and fussed with his hair, pulling it into a messy bun and securing it with one of the hair ties from around his wrist.
Making a thoughtful noise, he glanced at Lauren. “And Mariko didn’t—”
“No, she wouldn’t tell me what it was about. Confidentiality. And, look, we’ve had a call from someone needing their protection spells fixed. They said they’d come to the city, so you can chat to the client and your lawyer at the same time. Maybe even stick your head in the shop, if you’d be so kind.”
Julian wrinkled his nose. Toronto in April was damp and gray—nothing like his retreat in Las Vegas. He didn’t want to return to the city, and for more reasons than the weather, but if Mariko had been calling persistently, it was only a matter of time before she crashed his vacation. And she’d charge him her hourly rate, and an inconvenience fee, and probably bill him retrospectively for the calls—if she hadn’t already. Not even a Colquhoun trust fund would have much after all that.
He studied Lauren from behind his sunglasses. She was typing on her tablet, her lips pursed, an almost physical aura of irritation rising from her body. Julian forced himself to relax on the lounger, crossing his long legs and affecting nonchalance. Lauren wouldn’t fall for it, of course, but one of the waiters might.
“I’ll read my work emails, I promise. And I’ll catch a flight back to the city this afternoon. Visit the shop. How’s that?”
Lauren swiped the screen of her tablet and started typing again, not looking up. “As if you’d be that lucky. There’s a decent flight the day after tomorrow, though.” She clicked something. “There, you’re booked. I’ll ask the front desk to sort your things and arrange a cab to the airport.” Putting the tablet aside, Lauren leaned forward and touched Julian’s leg lightly. She lowered her voice. “I know it’s been a while since the bad old days, but you’re not—Everything’s okay, isn’t it? There isn’t—this is you being an arse, right? I’ve got nothing to worry about? You know I work with Meta Law sometimes. I can’t be dragged into that sort of shit again.”
A waiter on the other side of the pool caught Julian’s eye and deliberately turned on his heel as if on a catwalk. Julian admired the body on display and raised his eyebrows when the waiter finished his turn, tilting his head in appreciation.
Lauren’s questions filtered through, and he leaned forward, tipping down his sunglasses to look at her over the top. “I promise you, I’m just being an ass. And I’ll stop.” Glancing at the waiter, he grinned, sly and slow, gaze flickering to Lauren. “The day after tomorrow.”
“Christ, fine. I’ll leave you to it. See you in Toronto.”
“In Toronto,” Julian echoed. “Now, if you’ll excuse me?”
Surging from the lounger with more of a hip roll than strictly necessary, Julian left Lauren sighing and muttering about responsibilities behind him like a shadow.
He was on vacation, after all.
A MOST enjoyable dalliance later, Julian showered and meandered downstairs to the lobby to check on the arrangements for his travel to Toronto. With the cocktails out of his system, he felt guilty about how he’d treated Lauren. They’d been friends since boarding school, and she’d been his business partner for six years, since visiting him and his failing bookshop on a catch-up holiday and pointing out a dozen ways to run it better. After many business lunches and some visa juggling, she’d agreed to work with him and mentioned, offhand, her work with the Metaschemata Law office on legislation for mage-led businesses. He’d nearly kissed her pointy shoes. Julian had been abhorrent at business classes at university, worse with laws.
Lauren had discovered the latter a few years later, when Julian nosedived after his mother’s death.
Julian ran his fingers through his hair, and flicked his fingers to dismiss the memories. Not a topic for vacation, thank you, brain.
He checked his emails as the desk clerk, Mr. Pimlicoe, dealt with arrivals. Julian winced at the number of unread messages. Separate from his teaching account, which he checked regularly, the business correspondence dealt with contracts and appointments. No fun at all when he wasn’t in the mood for it. Lauren had access too, but she left anything of Julian’s, and Mariko had been in contact often enough over the years in her capacity as family lawyer that Lauren could be sure Mariko’s business was none of hers.
Mariko had increasingly used the “urgent” function over the weeks Julian had been away. For her last email, sent two hours earlier, she’d abandoned all attempt at formality and sent him a one-liner from her personal account, headed: “Get your head out of your ass and return my calls, Julian Colquhoun.”
No wonder his mother had been so fond of her. Julian’s smile wavered at the thought. Eighteen months since his mother’s death wasn’t enough time to heal the open wound of grief.
“—quhoun? Mage Colquhoun?”
Julian started, shoved his phone into his pocket, and plastered a smile on his face as he approached the front desk and Mr. Pimlicoe. Mr. Pimlicoe had worked at the hotel for years and was a familiar face, down to his funny green-tinted glasses, the same he’d worn since Julian had visited as a child with his mother. He’d always been kind—albeit a little overattentive—to Julian’s mother, but he remembered Julian too. He remembered all his guests, like he had some magic of his own.
“How’s it going today? Busy?”
Mr. Pimlicoe nodded, typing as he spoke. “Wonderfully busy, thank you, Mage Colquhoun. Summer is coming, you know.”
“Not soon enough.”
“Quite right! Never soon enough, is it? Now, Mage Colquhoun, we’ve had a few telephone calls for you. I have the messages here, give me one moment.” Mr. Pimlicoe flipped through the paper on his desk, a small frown furrowing his gray brows. “Never in the same place twice, I swear….”
“Don’t worry about it. My friend told me it was my lawyer calling,” Julian said. He leaned against the counter. “I just wanted to check if—”
“If it ain’t Julian Col-cock-hoon!”
Julian’s stomach dropped to ankle-level. He exchanged a look with Mr. Pimlicoe, whose pinched expression was as close as Julian imagined he’d ever get to disapproving in front of a guest. Widening his eyes slightly to reciprocate feeling, Julian dragged his biggest shit-eating grin from his boots—well, flip-flops, but who was checking—and turned around, hoping desperately someone else thought the nickname the peak of hilarity and not—
“Philip. Emily.”
Arseholes.
“We came all this way and this is the welcome we get? No drinks on the veranda or nothing?” Philip asked, walking like he’d just got off a horse, his Essex accent more obnoxious than usual outside of its natural setting. He took after the Wylie side of the family—their mothers were sisters—and had the same pale coloring as Julian, while Emily took after her father, dark and slight. “You can put your hand in your pocket for family, can’t you? Right, Ems?”
“Right. So? Snap your fingers and conjure us something, magician.”
Barely thirty seconds and Philip had managed to both ask for money and be disparaging about magic, surely a personal best, and a displeasing—though unsurprising—indication regarding the tone of their unexpected visit. Repressing the urge to roll his eyes, Julian turned to Mr. Pimlicoe, his professionally blank expression a soothing balm.
“Thank you, Mr. Pimlicoe. If Mariko calls again, please tell her I’ll be in touch. I’ll swing by after I sort this out.”
Mr. Pimlicoe pushed his glasses up his nose, his expression troubled. “I will, of course, take any messages, but the people calling you were, ah, Philip and Emily. Apologies for not alerting you earlier.” Because clearly no one in their right mind would want to speak to them, his expression said. But politely.
“No worries, and thank you again, Mr. Pimlicoe. Have a good afternoon.” Turning to his cousins, Julian allowed his smile to become more a baring of teeth. He gestured toward the lobby seating area, hoping to get the visit over with quickly. The proximity to the exit should provide a hint. “Shall we, dear cousins?”
“No need to be like that, Jules,” Philip said, sprawling in one of the leather armchairs. He grabbed an apple from the bowl and buffed it on his sleeve. “We came all this way.”
“And how did you find out where I was, exactly?” Julian asked.
“That was Ems. Wasn’t it, Ems?”
Emily nodded. She toyed with the ends of her hair.
“Right. She remembered your mom always came here in spring. And even with that messy business and all a few years ago, you still come here. When we couldn’t get you in the city, we decided to check. Woman at the desk said you were here.” Philip took a big bite of his apple, and Julian flinched at the sudden crunch. “So here we are.”
“And you’re here…. Why? Enlighten me.”
