by Parker Foye
“Happens to us all. You’re not from around here, Lauren said. You’re from up north, aren’t you? Pretty far to come, to leave so soon.”
West pulled a face. “Farther than I thought, I admit.”
Colquhoun’s lips quirked and he tilted his head as if conceding the point. The movement made the light turn his hair to gold. West shoved his hands in his pockets.
“Then stretch your legs while you’re here, make the drive worth it. Come on. Show me the markings. If you don’t want me to work on them, I can at least find the best mage for the job.”
Feeling stupid but not wanting to return to Joe with his tail between his legs and admit the trip had been a waste of time, West relented and fished the paper from his pocket. He’d used the end of a roll of till receipts and carefully rewrapped it once he’d traced as many spell markers as he could find. Handing the roll to Colquhoun, West felt himself flush at Colquhoun’s raised eyebrows.
“All I had. Sorry.”
Colquhoun studied the markers with an intense look of concentration, a small divot appearing between his eyebrows, which lowered until he frowned outright at the paper. West shifted his weight, half-convinced Colquhoun would set the paper aflame. Could mages do that? Just by thinking?
On the verge of asking for his paper and apologizing—again—West’s jaw snapped shut when Colquhoun suddenly let out a muttered curse that made magic spike in the air. West flinched, his ears pulling back, like the word might hurt them. Colquhoun pinned him with a glare and West shrank against the wall.
“These are from your spell?” When West nodded, Colquhoun hissed. He shook the paper. “Who put the work in place?”
West shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. I—I inherited the cabin. From a—a distant relative. A hermit. They didn’t leave notes. And they’re dead now.” He didn’t want to tell the supermodel mage he’d moved into an abandoned hunting cabin because he’d run away from his family and hadn’t any clue what the spells did. Though I definitely should’ve come up with a better lie.
Light flickered in Colquhoun’s odd-colored eyes, like he’d found a puzzle he wanted to crack. Familiar with the tenacity of academic interest from his interactions with the Prof, West was both pleased and disconcerted.
“So you’ll fix them?” he ventured. “Please. It’s important. To me.” And my future safety.
Colquhoun shoved the paper at West’s chest, and he fumbled to catch it before it fell. The light in Colquhoun’s eyes turned sharp and calculating, his mouth a pale slash in his face. He curled his lip.
“This is nonsense. They’re not real. If they were real, then you’ve somehow inherited one of Mage Matilda’s lost works. And that’s bullshit. You found these in a book somewhere.” Colquhoun wrinkled his nose. His smell became bitter. “Stop wasting my time and go home.”
Anger flared in West’s chest, and he inhaled sharply, any remaining tears burned off by the heat of his temper. He shoved the paper in his pocket, disquieted to find his hands shaking. Colquhoun’s cool gaze only stoked the fire of West’s anger. Instincts wanted him to thrash out at the source of his pain, but he took a deep breath and reset his stance. He wouldn’t become the thing his father had made.
“I don’t know who Mage Matilda is, and I’m not lying. Thanks for your time.” West worked his jaw. His ears were ringing. “If there’s any expense, please ask Lauren to contact me. She was—she was very kind.”
Unlike you, you steaming pile of crap.
Colquhoun arched his eyebrows. “Are you going to answer that?”
Oh. The ringing wasn’t in West’s ears, but from his pocket. Glaring at Colquhoun, who didn’t seem inclined to move despite basic manners dictating he should, West fumbled for his phone and answered it curtly. An Ottawa number.
“Yes?”
“This is Alphonse from the Metaschemata Law office, Ontario. Am I speaking to West—”
“Yes. What’s this about?” West asked, more sharply than he intended. Colquhoun’s eyebrows climbed higher and his sneer took on a smirking edge. “I mean…. How can I help?”
“Sir, I’m sorry to inform you there’s been an incident at your home. People traveling nearby noticed smoke and called the local fire department. When they recognized the mage-created markers, the fire department called us in. An investigation has been opened.”
West’s stomach hollowed as anger rushed out and fear filled the gaps. He didn’t know what to be more afraid of: whoever had set fire to his cabin, how badly the markers had been breached, or whether Meta Law had called his father first. They shouldn’t have, since West didn’t have anything linking his new life to the Hargreaves pack, but the possibility frightened him.
After fear, his thoughts turned to his few belongings, including his laptop. His connection to the Prof. West’s throat felt thick with worry and he held his phone more tightly to his face.
“How did you—” He broke off and swallowed, clearing his throat. “How did you know to call me?”
Alphonse didn’t seem to think the question strange. “Your manager, a Mr. Joe O’Leary, gave us your details. He was passing by. And lucky he did, sir, or there might have been nothing left to save.”
Joe. West breathed a sigh of relief. He nodded, though the only person to see was Colquhoun, who sneered far less than he had at the beginning of the conversation. Why hadn’t he left yet? Did mages not get the same lessons in basic manners as lycans and humans?
“Thank you for calling. Do I—What should I do?”
“Do you have somewhere to stay, sir? I’m afraid the property is significantly damaged and we’re investigating the source of the blaze. We’ve contacted the MAA for assistance. Your insurance company will be able to advise you.”
“Sure,” West lied. “My insurance company. I’ll contact them about somewhere to stay.”
“Excellent. Then we’ll be in touch. Sorry again to be the bearer of bad news, sir.”
Alphonse disconnected the call. West stared at the screen for a while, until Colquhoun took the phone from his hand and tucked it into West’s jacket pocket. The touch was intimate, overstepping, but West didn’t object. It was nice to have any touch at all, to ground him in the world and keep him from sinking into it altogether, on two legs or four.
What am I going to do?
“You weren’t exaggerating about needing those spells refreshed, were you? I’ve good hearing.” Colquhoun’s voice cut through West’s daze. “Unlikely as it is, you really have something of Mage Matilda’s work, don’t you? Or did.”
“I guess.”
Colquhoun rubbed his mouth. “Then I have to take this on. The challenge alone—And that’s without even considering your sad puppy face and the things it’s doing to my feelings.”
“Puppy face?” West asked, alarmed. Had he given himself away? He’d been careful not to tell Lauren more than he absolutely had to, and lycans didn’t have any giveaway traits like mages and their eyes.
Colquhoun waved his hand. “Just an expression. Don’t worry about it. Look, I’m not going to lie, this work will take time. Both for me to understand the spells, since I need access to—And for the right planetary alignment for the stronger casting. And if what I overheard is right, you’ll want the strongest casting after the rebuilding.” He shrugged. “But time costs money. Speaking frankly, I’m not sure you can afford me.” His eyes narrowed and a sly grin crossed his face. Cinnamon sweetened the air between them. “But I might have a proposition. A way to get you a safe place to stay, and me the time to work on this puzzle. My family is on my case about something, and you could help me gain access to Matilda’s texts at the same time. We could help each other. What do you say?”
A group of women walked by, laughing at a joke, and the noise broke the tension building between West and Colquhoun. West started, blinking rapidly. He’d been entranced by the rhythm of Colquhoun’s words, the way he leaned forward like he wanted to share a secret, his scent rolling over West’s senses so even the stenc
h of the city became nothing more than background noise.
West took a step back, needing space. He took another when the first didn’t seem enough. He tugged his jacket sleeves straight, watching his hands as he did. Little scars decorated his skin, from playful pups who didn’t know their own strength. He liked the scars; they meant he carried his pack with him. Memories brought comfort, most of the time. At least the more distant ones did.
“What do you mean, help each other?” he asked, glancing at Colquhoun through his lashes. “I don’t know you. I don’t know anything about you.”
“We can get to know each other. That’s the beauty of this plan. We’ll have the time.”
“Time for what?”
Colquhoun grinned widely. The expression made his eyes crinkle. West thought again about the beautiful people on billboards and how he’d never expected to see anyone like that in real life.
“Marriage,” Colquhoun said. “You and me. What do you say?”
If someone had asked, West wouldn’t have known what he expected with regard to a marriage proposal. Not a real one, anyway. The idea of marrying the woman his father picked had been one of the straws piling to break his back—neither he nor Dana deserved the misery that would’ve ensued—but he hadn’t entirely dismissed the notion. Not the marrying type, sure. But that wasn’t “never.” Wasn’t “no.”
Being proposed to in an alley by a complete stranger, on the other hand, was a firm and resounding no. West felt sick. “What sort of—Don’t answer that. I don’t want to know,” he said, words clipped.
Colquhoun raked his fingers through his hair, his expression strained. He glanced over his shoulder. “No, listen. This is actually perfect. I don’t mean it—well, I do mean it. I need to get married, you see. It’s an inheritance thing. I’m stuck for time, and you’ve come along at the perfect moment.” He smiled lopsidedly, more real than any of his previous expressions had been. “The truth is, no one else I know would do it.”
“Did you ask?”
“I don’t need to. They know I’m not the marrying type.”
West snorted despite himself. “That makes two of us.”
“Really? But you’re so….” Colquhoun gestured vaguely at West. “Really? You’re ridiculously attractive. No one’s tried snatching you up already?”
Face hot, West grabbed his elbow with his opposite hand, hugging it slightly. The words shouldn’t go to his head—Colquhoun wanted a favor; of course he’d try flattery—but no one had ever said anything positive about his appearance before. He liked it, especially coming from such a beautiful man.
Maybe Colquhoun’s not so bad.
Or maybe that was West’s dick talking. What would West’s father say, to hear his lesser son’s head turned by a pretty mage?
Probably something cruel.
Not a good example. What would the Prof say? They hadn’t spoken about their personal lives, keeping to the boundaries of a friendly professional relationship, but West liked to imagine the Prof as a supportive voice in his mind, where only his father’s words had ever sat. West’s inner-Prof had encouraged West’s attempt to shed the skin of the Hargreaves pack, and he’d been pleased when West found the cabin to keep him safe.
The cabin was all but gone. First the breach on the perimeter, and now the fire. Did West even have a home to return to? Without protection spells he’d be exposed to whatever lycan wandered past, friendly or hostile, and the neutrality of the Metaschemata Law claim wouldn’t hold if his father sent out word about West to local packs. The Hargreaves name could be very persuasive. He chewed his lip and considered Colquhoun’s offer.
His proposal.
West needed somewhere safe, at least while he thought of a secondary plan. Was anywhere safer than with a mage? He wouldn’t be putting Colquhoun in danger, since he could protect himself. And West could handle himself, if it came down to that.
“No. No snatching,” West finally said. He glanced down, unable to look at Colquhoun, unable to believe what he was about to say. They’d just met. “How long? If I said yes?”
Colquhoun gave a short intake of breath but replied quickly. “Six months, give or take. We need to be together for a bit before the wedding, to establish our story. Fake dates, and so on. Then we’ll marry and I’ll ‘work abroad,’ leaving you free to do whatever you like. Six months later, I’ll inherit and we’ll divorce. Easy.”
“And you’ll be able to copy the spells by then?” West looked up.
Colquhoun nodded. “Definitely.”
“And you promise I’ll be safe? No one will be able to find me?”
“If I hadn’t asked Lauren to perform our standard spells for ill intent, I’d be worried by now, you realize. But yes. I know a wealth of protection charms, and my properties are bespelled. I’m a bit of a recluse, myself, and—”
Wait. “Properties? Plural?”
“I’ll explain when we go over the contract. If you agree, that is. Six months of safety for a few hours of wearing a suit and saying ‘I do.’ What have you got to lose?”
That was the question. West had nothing to lose. He had nothing at all besides a borrowed truck, a borrowed jacket, and a life he wasn’t yet convinced was his to live. It hadn’t been his intention to run away, but once he’d taken the first step, the next followed in turn, easy as chasing after the moon. When he’d finally come to a stop, he found himself alone and far from home.
Those first few months on his own, he’d made bad decision after bad decision, trying to keep his feet beneath him, before meeting Joe and stumbling into his little cabin.
Six months at the diner hadn’t been long at all. West could give another six months to Colquhoun. He didn’t have any other plans for them, and maybe he could do something good by helping Colquhoun with his inheritance. Better than worrying himself bald, at least. And he’d have a safe home to return to afterward.
After the afterward—Well. His future self could think about that.
West took a deep breath, smelling fresh coffee, cinnamon buns, and tart citrus. He held out his hand to Colquhoun, who took it after a moment, his eyes catching the light reflected from nearby windows. Colquhoun’s hand was warm, his skin soft.
“West?” Colquhoun said his name softly. West thought he could get used to hearing it.
“You’ve got yourself a deal,” West said. “I do.”
Chapter Four
FROM a hopeless cause to affianced in barely twenty-four hours. Julian prided himself as a problem-solver, but even he thought that impressive.
Lauren? Not so much.
“You just left Vegas! I thought that was where shotgun weddings happened, not in bloody Toronto!” Lauren whispered fiercely, glancing at West like he wouldn’t hear if she ducked her head. Considering they were all crowded in Julian’s “office”—really a stockroom for the store, and where Lauren liked to do the accounts when she needed a break from home—West couldn’t help but overhear. He pretended obliviousness well, though. Julian liked that in a fiancé.
“It’s not a shotgun wedding,” Julian pointed out, trying to help. “If anything it’s a shotgun engagement. But that’s not really a thing.”
“And I’m not pregnant,” West chimed in, apparently at the limits of his feigned ignorance. His dry tone made Julian bite the inside of this cheek to stop his grin. He liked West.
He liked West a bit too much, all told, considering the brevity of their acquaintance. And considering Julian couldn’t leave this one behind and pretend the whole thing hadn’t happened. He needed the relationship between them, such as it was, to last until inheritance day.
“Can you please find the standard nondisclosure contract for new clients?” Julian pointed at the filing cabinet, taking advantage of Lauren’s distraction. “West needs to sign. It’ll keep everything just between us. Nothing to worry about.”
West fussed with the cuffs of his jacket, sitting too wide on his shoulders and making him look like he’d borrowed his father’s clothes, t
hough the ill fit did little to disguise West’s coiled strength. He walked like a predator, with the easy stride of the most dangerous creature in the room. With Julian nearby, West would be knocked down the feeding order a touch, but in most cases, the quiet confidence would be deserved. Julian had yet to get a true read on him, but he guessed West was a meta. One of the big cats. They usually traveled alone and valued privacy. Rude to ask what wasn’t divulged, though. Julian’s mother had taught him that.
Meta or not, it didn’t matter. If anything, West being meta would aid Julian’s plan. Their magic could align, over time and proximity, to form the illusion of a bond to those not looking too closely. Used in conjunction with liberally applied bribes, and he’d have access to his mother’s estate long before Christmas.
If only his mother hadn’t loved her jokes and coded her will. If only there weren’t those obsessed with her legacy. If only the MAA didn’t require a twelve-month wait after a registered mage’s death in case of resurrection. If only North American and European mage law could agree whether the law of domicile or birth country took precedence in regard to distribution of magical property. Julian would’ve had access to his mother’s library months ago if it weren’t for all the if onlys, and he could’ve started making reparations for his grief-influenced actions instead of letting them stew like bad fruit.
“I’m considering a summer wedding,” Julian said, forcing his thoughts to more pleasant things. “June. What do you think, West? That gives us two months for the honeymoon period, and four until the tragic breakup of our marriage.”
“Good to hear you taking the institution of marriage so seriously,” Lauren said, rolling her eyes. She grabbed a set of papers from the filing cabinet and slid them across the desk to West. “Here you go. Please read and sign where indicated. If you actually want to do so.”
“Thank you. I’ll just… just sit down with this.”
