Mage of Inconvenience

by Parker Foye

  “I found the machine. Half’s left, if you want some.”

  “Generous.”

  Easing from the couch and wishing—not for the first time—his magic had the finesse for aches and pains, Julian shambled toward the kitchen. West followed at a more leisurely pace, already in jeans and boots and a criminally oversized long-sleeved T-shirt. Though, having slept in his clothes, Julian didn’t have much weight to cast aspersions in that regard.

  “I thought we might go for a short hike today, if you agree? We’ll stay at the cottage, at least until the formal announcement, so we might as well get you acquainted with the place. There’s some magnificent views from the top of the hill,” Julian said, studiously pouring his coffee as he spoke and trying not to think of the punishment he was about to subject his body to. He dared to look over his shoulder. “Unless you object?”

  West put away his phone when he saw Julian looking. Rude. “No problem. I like the outdoors.”

  “Well. Okay. Excellent.”

  “Great.”

  “Good.”

  “Fine,” West said, lips twitching.

  Julian rolled his eyes and took a deep drink from his coffee in an attempt to prevent himself from laughing at the sheer awkwardness of the situation. West’s shoulders shook as he poured himself a cup, stealing Julian’s hard-earned coffee. The honeymoon period is over.

  Julian opened his mouth to say something—anything—but closed it again. What would he say? Instead, he finished his coffee and used a small twist of magic to send the mug to clatter in the sink, making West start and spill coffee on his boots. West lifted his boot to inspect the toes. He frowned.

  “I like these boots.” He glanced at the mug, frown clearing. “Was that magic? Impressive. I liked those lights you did yesterday too.”

  “You’ve seen nothing yet. Give me five minutes.” Julian tilted his head, considering his state and how he could barely shuffle about. “Twenty.”

  He headed upstairs before West could respond. He washed and changed into clothes suitable for hiking. Messy jeans, stained with potions residue, and several layers to combat the spring chill. He found his hiking boots in the hall closet, dry mud flaking from the tread, and swore as he yanked them on. Julian had never been an outdoor person, but his mother loved the countryside and the view over the lake, and they’d sit there for hours. Magic ran thick at the top of the hill, and Julian had performed silly tricks to make her laugh. It had been one of the few things he could do when the sickness held her tight in its fist.

  He’d never taken anyone else to their spot. Hadn’t had anyone to take. Julian didn’t know what it meant to lead West there now.

  Exertion burned the chill from the day as they walked, and by the time they reached the top of the hill, Julian needed to shed one of his layers. Beside him, easily keeping pace, West looked like he could keep going down the other side of the hill and jog up again, several times, before he broke a sweat. His placid expression hadn’t changed during their hike, and he’d barely spoken apart from warning Julian of an unsteady rock—like Julian hadn’t hiked these trails for years—but their silence hadn’t been as uncomfortable as Julian would have expected. That made Julian uncomfortable.

  West stood silent at the crest of the hill, hands loose at his sides, his gaze distant. Wind whipped his hair around his face. Julian wanted to offer a hair tie, but the silence between them had taken a strange, fragile air. He wanted to ask if West was okay but feared the answer.

  Casting his gaze around and finding nothing, Julian fished through his pockets. He hadn’t worn the jacket since the last time he’d been at the cottage, and he found an old receipt stuffed in the corner. Perfect. With West’s attention fixed on the horizon, Julian wrapped his finger around a singing line of magic and rolled the receipt into a cone with his other hand. The spell was a simple one he’d taught himself as a child to make his mother laugh.

  When he’d spooled enough magic, he wrapped it around the paper cone and pulled, flicking the paper at the same time and directing a note of power along the lines.

  Paper confetti showered West, carried by the wind, turning his back to snow.

  “What the—was that magic?”

  The awe in West’s voice made Julian’s cheeks burn. He’d leveled buildings with magic—in the correct zones, and with permission, of course—and he’d coaxed localized rainstorms into being. He’d once convinced several crows to follow Philip around for a week, staring at him from phone wires, which had been a personal success. But confetti? Who was impressed by confetti?

  West shook himself like a dog shedding water. He brushed his shoulders with a careless sweep of his hand, smiling at the confetti caught on his fingers. A sly grin curved his lips.

  “I hope you’re going to clean this up,” he said.

  “…Dammit.”

  Julian always forgot that part.

  “THANKS again for the hike. This place is beautiful.”

  It was the third time West had thanked Julian. Julian suspected someone had been overly zealous with teaching West good manners. For the third time, Julian shrugged. They were almost to the cottage.

  “No problem. I like it there. Now, where should we go for our next date? Dinner tonight, I thought. Somewhere in town, so people can see us together. Any preferences? Seafood, or Italian, or—”

  “Julian Col-cock-hoon!”

  Not this. Not today.

  Julian had years of practice controlling his instinctive urge to reach for his magic. They’d trained it out of him at the Academy with the application of mittens. It was extremely difficult to manipulate thin lines of magic when muffled by thick wool.

  Difficult, but not impossible. For Julian, at least.

  Though he’d loathed the training at the time, it came in handy when Philip invited himself to Colquhoun property as if he already owned it. As if he ever would.

  Julian found an easy smile and bumped West with his shoulder as he stepped slightly in front. “Philip. To what do I owe this pleasure? Twice in one week really is something, you’re definitely getting the value from your passport. And no Emily today? Shame.”

  Philip’s eyes narrowed. “She’s busy. Who’s this?”

  “West. My paramour. My beloved. My betrothed.” Julian hoped West didn’t object to his surfeit of new titles. They hadn’t gotten around to the pet names conversation yet. “West, this is my cousin Philip.”

  “Pleasure,” West grunted. Perfectly. He slid his arm around Julian’s waist and… no, that was perfect. West smelled like pine trees and cold, and his hand rested on Julian’s hip like the two had been designed for compatibility.

  “Betrothed?” Philip repeated, and Julian nodded. “Right. I’ve got to—I’ve got to speak to Emily.”

  Without another word, Philip stumbled to his car, an ugly 4x4 fresh from the showroom. More money than sense. He’d tracked Julian from one country to another, only to run with his tail between his legs. Arsehole. When he’d screeched away, making Julian grateful he didn’t have any close neighbors, West tapped Julian’s hip. He hadn’t moved his hand. Julian stared at it, at the calluses on West’s fingers, the scars on his knuckles.

  “Inside?” West asked.

  Julian nodded. He couldn’t seem to find his voice.

  Chapter Five

  WEST had made one bad decision after another since his last shift at Joe’s Diner. Together those bad decisions somehow formed a path leading inexorably to West sitting in a luxurious cottage, wrapped in the delicious scent of a near-stranger, and seriously considering telling someone about his lycan status for the first time in his life.

  It was the moon influencing his decisions. Had to be. The moon hung nearly full, waxy and fat in the night, with no light pollution to dilute it or clouds to cover it. Homesickness ached in West’s chest as he stared at the moon from his window, chewing his lip and thinking.

  He checked his phone again, the blue light making him squint and miss his laptop anew. The laptop had bee
n left a twisted wreck from the fire, and when he’d seen it at the cabin he’d spent a moment hugging its new sharp-cornered shape to his chest. The laptop had been West’s main connection to a world bigger than him, and it had been stolen by whoever set the fire. With his situation with Colquhoun, and having quit work, West didn’t know how he’d afford a replacement. He’d thought about emailing the Prof about his situation, since the end of the course was approaching, but he didn’t want to bother him with two emails in a row.

  Especially since the Prof hadn’t answered the first email yet. West tossed the cell onto his bed when finding his inbox remained empty. Had the Prof forgotten about him? He probably had more important things on his mind.

  West rested his face on the cool window and sighed, his breath fogging the pane. This is stupid. I should go home.

  But he couldn’t go home. Not to his little cabin in the woods, and not to his father’s pack.

  And, come tomorrow night, West couldn’t stay at the cottage either. However Colquhoun’s magic worked, he couldn’t possibly miss a lycan changing shapes in his guest room and scratching his beautiful floors with jagged claws. Back in the cabin, West had been safe to wander inside the perimeter of the protection spells, hunt little animals that strayed across his path, or play in the shallow stream. But the lake? He didn’t even know how to swim.

  “West? West, are you all right?”

  West started, then pulled a face at his reflection. He’d only meant to come upstairs for a fresh shirt, after spilling half of their take-out dinner over his other one. Cursing lowly, he snatched his last clean T-shirt from his bag. Smoke clung to his clothes, and he sniffed self-consciously at the shirt hem. Would Colquhoun notice the smell? West should ask about laundry soon.

  “West, are you—Oh. Ah.”

  Closing his eyes in embarrassment, West felt his cheeks heat hot enough to boil water. He yanked the T-shirt down and raised his gaze to where Colquhoun stood in the doorway. He had a glass of wine in one hand, tilting precariously close to horizontal. As West watched, Colquhoun shook himself and turned on one of his bright smiles.

  “Sorry to interrupt. Wanted to check if you’d be back for dessert.”

  West smoothed his shirt over his chest. It felt tight. “Have you got ice cream?”

  Father never kept ice cream in the house. He’d called it an “indulgence,” but not the way West heard people at the diner say. More like indulgence was the first step to ruin. West had snuck a spoonful, a few months after starting at the diner, and nearly bitten off his own tongue at the sweetness.

  Then he’d gone back for a second helping.

  Colquhoun took a sip of his wine and nodded. His eyes were bright. “I think ice cream is the only thing in the freezer. Come and look with me?”

  It wasn’t an invitation West wanted to refuse.

  As he left the room to join Colquhoun, West saw the moon in the window from the corner of his eye. He closed the bedroom door on the view.

  If only it were as easy to ignore its call.

  THE next morning Colquhoun beckoned West over to look at photographs on his tablet. There were more than West remembered being taken, more than he’d ever seen of himself. He itched with discomfort as he took a seat at the table, picking at a slice of toast. Though he couldn’t see it in the morning sky, the moon pressed on him, brooding with fullness.

  “All of these already?”

  Colquhoun nodded, scrolling through the images. “We need some of both of us, though. And not just selfies. But that’s a good place to start. Come here,” he said, moving until their shoulders touched. He opened the camera and stretched out his arm with the tablet, angling to position them both in the frame. “Pretend you’re in love!”

  West rolled his eyes but did as ordered, trying to imagine what it would be like to be in love with Colquhoun. If they’d met at the diner, and they’d grown to know each other, and maybe one day West had dared to ask him out. He felt himself smile at the idea. Joe would tease them both forever.

  “Like that. Perfect.”

  No one in the pack had seen the need for photographs. They’d lived and worked in one another’s pockets, each day unfolding enough like the one before that no one needed document one from many. Or at least that’s what he’d thought. West had started to take photographs of sunrises and sunsets after buying his phone, with Joe’s help, and each of those seemed different from the last. Each one more beautiful. He had one picture of Joe, taken in the kitchen. One of the diner. His cabin. But he had none of the home he’d left. None of his family, for whatever that would’ve been worth.

  West had never seen a photograph of himself until Colquhoun’s enthusiasms. He wasn’t certain the man on Colquhoun’s tablet, looking at the camera with such a soft expression, could be him. It barely seemed possible.

  Colquhoun played with the photograph, changing shadows and light. He’d done the same with the other photographs, though West didn’t see the purpose.

  “More coffee?” West offered, getting up to reach for the pot.

  “Please.” Colquhoun turned their faces blue, laughed, and switched them back. “Two sugars. No milk, thanks.”

  Black Coffee Two Sugars. That would be Colquhoun if he’d ever visited Joe’s Diner. If he’d been the man from West’s daydream, instead of his… his what? Fiancé? Struggling with that word. With the whole situation.

  “I thought we might have an official date tonight,” Colquhoun said, wrapping his hands around his coffee as West poured himself one. “On the yacht. Something with wine. What do you think?”

  I think the moon is full tonight.

  West’s discomfort didn’t come from danger. He’d changed with the moon all his life, and hadn’t lost himself since leaving his teenage years. Even then, the worst thing to happen had been fighting with Lyle.

  He didn’t worry about hurting Colquhoun physically, but West needed Colquhoun more than the reverse was true, and West couldn’t afford to do anything to make Colquhoun cancel their arrangement. Discovering he’d allied himself to a lycan—a meta, West corrected himself—would surely give rise to complications and doubts. Not the least of which was the question of where West had come from, to be struggling without his pack.

  “West?” Colquhoun asked.

  West had been thinking too long. He moved mugs around in the cupboard pointlessly, trying to think of an excuse.

  “I don’t feel well,” he said lamely.

  Colquhoun’s scent changed as his curiosity piqued. “Not food-related, is it? I can’t remember when I last bought bread.” He poked dubiously at the toast on West’s plate. “Sorry.”

  Guess I’ll be doing the grocery shopping.

  West rubbed his face, thinking pale thoughts. He leaned against the counter, arms folded across his chest, and tried to project an aura of illness. Illness of a definitely-not-a-lycan nature.

  I am terrible at this.

  “A seasonal thing, I think. I’m tired and achy. I won’t be much good for company. But rest should be enough. We could go on the boat tomorrow? I thought I’d try to sleep some today.”

  Colquhoun rocked back on his chair, balancing it on two legs, his expression strangely blank. West stopped himself halfway through reaching to steady him. After a moment, Colquhoun shrugged and picked up his tablet.

  “Tomorrow will be fine. I hear the weather’s clearing.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Help yourself to whatever you find in the kitchen. Maybe check the dates first.”

  Colquhoun’s dismissal made West feel like a complete shit, and irritated he felt that way. He didn’t owe Colquhoun anything. And it was only for a night. Even married couples got sick, didn’t they? And they weren’t married or a couple. West could go.

  “So I’ll just… I’ll go, then,” he mumbled. Colquhoun didn’t look up from his tablet, from the West he’d discovered there.

  COLQUHOUN’S scent lay thick around the cottage. After an awkward afternoon raiding Colquhoun’s bookshelve
s and trying not to get underfoot as Colquhoun made loud preparations for dinner on his boat, West needed to get away from his scent. He briefly considered staying nearby during the change, but didn’t know what defenses Colquhoun might’ve put in place to protect his territory. If West wanted to change safely and clear his head, he’d do better to put some distance between himself and the cottage.

  West’s heart pounded in his ears as he snuck from the cottage. With every step he strained to hear the crackle of lightning that would blast him from the carefully tended lawn, but nothing came. Maybe magic only kept people out and didn’t care about them leaving.

  Maybe I should’ve thought about that before risking my stupid life instead of telling the truth.

  By the time he reached the thickly forested area edging the lake, West dripped with sweat and his muscles ached from tension. Stretching his arms, he glanced at the dark cottage and wondered what Colquhoun might be doing. He’d been on the boat until late and smelled of wine when he returned. They hadn’t spoken for hours, and then only in passing.

  I don’t think I can bear six months of this.

  West huffed at the direction of his thoughts. I have to.

  Pushing aside tomorrow’s problems for tomorrow, West checked the moon and gauged the time remaining until the compulsion to shift became too strong to resist. Long enough. Losing the trail, he pushed deeper into the forest, climbing over rocks and crossing streams, in search of green and untouched scents. The evening cooled around him as the last of the sunset turned the sky crimson, dappling the clouds he saw in snatches through the trees. West breathed more deeply, picking out the scents of the forest. He’d been raised farther northwest, with different flora and fauna, but the forest always welcomed West home.