by Parker Foye
Scrubbing a hand through his hair—he must look a fright—Julian rotated his other wrist, coaxing magelights to glow around the bedroom. West turned off his flashlight and pocketed his phone, poking the nearest light with fascination. They were flat lights, studded into the walls. The spells had been simple, but the wiring was a nightmare.
“How do you do that? These must’ve cost—Wow.”
“If I said magic—”
“I get it, I get it.” West held up his hands. “Message received. Would it be better if you just assumed I was impressed all the time?”
“No, please keep being impressed out loud. I don’t get enough of that.”
West laughed, and Julian smiled, not saying he’d been sincere. Some mages ran in self-congratulatory circles, but Julian had never been invited, and a little back-patting didn’t go amiss. Though Lauren said Julian’s shoulders should be sprained from all the back-patting he did for himself.
Holding a patent for magelights didn’t exactly harm his skill with the things either.
He didn’t mention anything like that to West, though. Wouldn’t. Instead, Julian shooed West from his room, raising his eyebrows pointedly and gesturing to his naked chest and fetching sheet-toga arrangement when West didn’t move. He dressed quickly once West closed the door, pulling on jeans and a warm sweater, and stuffing his feet into his boots. What did one wear to watch the sunrise? Julian had no fucking clue. He chose his “hungover coffee run” ensemble and hoped for the best, pulling his hair into a bun.
West didn’t complain about the outfit when Julian linked their arms together to walk downstairs. Awkward, but Julian would’ve fallen down the stairs without the steadying grip of his paramour. His legs hadn’t quite woken up.
When they reached the front door, it occurred to Julian to ask where they’d be watching the sun rise from.
“Just nearby,” West said. “Not far. I promise.”
Promises had never meant much to Julian.
Julian checked his phone as they walked, biting down on his smile when he saw an email from Nolan among his other new mail, the usual requests for spells and information on Matilda’s legacy. Nolan’s response to his article email was short, saying he might be out of touch due to a family situation. After quickly typing a response, Julian stuffed his phone into his pocket. His shoulders felt lightened of a weight they’d been carrying, and he upped his pace, treating West to a hop and a skip, just because he could.
“Good news?” West asked.
“Lauren sent a list of venues. It’s—”
“V-venues?”
West nearly tripped over his own feet, with only Julian’s quick actions preventing his fall. Then he seemed to forget how to use his legs, standing stymied and blinking in the predawn light. Julian could empathize. He patted West’s shoulder.
“Let’s talk about that later, shall we? You’ve got me out here for this sunrise. Let’s see it.”
“Right. Right, let’s—Let’s do that.”
They walked the rest of the way in silence, West taking over when they reached the lip of the lake, where stones were piled like God had some leftover parts. West helped Julian climb the rocks—his help wasn’t needed, but the poor creature seemed shell-shocked and in need of something to do—and followed after.
“Just in time,” West said, nudging him.
Julian’s breath caught in his chest as he looked in the same direction as West. Colors were reaching across the lake toward them in long fingers, reflected back at the sky from the still surface. Julian had never watched a sunrise on purpose, more usually catching them in glimpses between drinks when the night turned over to day. He took a breath and let the morning fill him with light. Beside him, West exhaled, long and low. Their shoulders brushed together.
Julian’s hands started to shake.
I could get used to this.
He couldn’t get used to it.
West nudged his shoulder. “Are you okay?”
“I want—I needed—”
An explosion shattered the peace of the morning, lighting the lake in angry red. Birds chattered toward the sky and a car alarm started to sing. Julian shoved out from beneath West, a spell on his fingertips. He knew where to look even before West pointed.
Julian’s yacht was on fire.
Chapter Seven
WEST would be the first to admit he’d panicked, bundling Colquhoun into his arms like a damsel and running for the cottage, grabbing Colquhoun’s car keys, and speeding from the billowing smoke as fast as local laws permitted. Flames flickered in an afterimage behind his eyes, and his nose couldn’t shake the smell of burning. They were forty minutes south before he registered Colquhoun’s warm touch on his thigh, heat seeping through his jeans.
West blinked hard and forced his hands to relax around the wheel. He glanced at Colquhoun and found him smiling. Though fear made West’s heart hammer and his skull cramp with tension, Colquhoun smiled. It shouldn’t have been as reassuring as it was.
“There you are. I’d been wondering.” Colquhoun squeezed West’s leg lightly. “Back with me?”
Mouth dry, West swallowed. He ran his fingers around the steering wheel, made slick by sweaty palms. The tips of his ears burned.
“Sorry. Did you want to go back?”
“Good God, no. Let’s keep driving. There’s a motel along here somewhere, I saw the sign. Let’s get there, and I can have a proper, civilized panic.”
“Panic? You seem calm enough.”
Colquhoun grimaced. “I’m letting you panic for the both of us right now. If I think about anything serious, I’m concerned I’ll blow our car off the road with magical feedback.”
West hadn’t realized such a thing was possible. Looking at Colquhoun more closely, he belatedly noticed the sickly pallor of his skin and the thin sheen of sweat making long strands of hair stick to his face. Stress showed in the pinched lines of his smile when he caught West’s gaze and swatted West with the back of his hand.
“The turn is coming up.”
Wrenching his attention back to the road, West chewed his lip as he signaled to take the exit to the Skyview Motel. A few cars were in the lot, and West parked as close to the exit as he could, in case they needed to run. He cut the engine, and the car rocked as he put it into Park. Drizzle started outside, tapping on the windscreen.
“Should we get a room?” Colquhoun asked when West didn’t move.
West ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. “I don’t have any money.”
A strange, choked noise made him twist his neck fast enough that it cracked, concerned the “magical feedback” portion of their day had started. Colquhoun had doubled over, holding his midsection and covering his face with one hand. Dread pooled heavy in West’s gut, and he reached out, not sure what to do.
“Are you—” West sat back in his seat when he got a look at Colquhoun’s face, flushed with mirth. He worked his jaw, trying to stave off the blush he could feel creeping across his cheeks. “All right, it isn’t that funny.”
“It’s fucking hilarious,” Colquhoun gasped out between cackles. None of his other words got through, and West let him have his fun until a hysterical note edged the laughter and Colquhoun seemed to struggle for breath. Should he help? The air in the car crackled and began to smell like citrus, sour enough to make West’s nostrils flare.
Furballs.
Unfastening his seat belt, West shuffled across the space between them and tried to catch Colquhoun’s gaze. He didn’t want to touch him, not knowing what reaction might be provoked, but he didn’t want to shout either. Shouting rarely helped anything, in West’s experience.
“Col—Julian?” West asked, voice low. The name felt strange in his mouth. “Julian. Can I help?”
Colquhoun shook his head, long hair whipping. He took a breath, and another, deeper, trying to gain control of himself. West watched, making fists to remind himself not to reach out, for all he wanted to smooth Colquhoun’s wild hair or touch his sh
oulder. Anything to try to ease some of the fear rolling from Colquhoun in thick waves.
Slowly, the citrus smell reeled in as Colquhoun’s hysteria faded. With a final exhale, Colquhoun tossed his head to resettle his hair and swiped his eyes with the heel of his hand. He smiled, not looking directly at West, and opened the glove compartment.
West stared. “Did you rob a bank? How much cash is that?”
Rolls of hundreds and fifties were marshaled inside, more than any day’s take at Joe’s Diner. West had never seen so much cash in one place, and Colquhoun kept it in his car like it was nothing.
Taking one of the rolls of fifties, Colquhoun peeled off several bills and handed them over. West wondered if he should sniff them for drugs, if he even knew what any smelled like.
“Get us a room, won’t you, darling? And here.” Colquhoun handed West a plastic card, white on both sides, with a chip cut from the corner. “If they want ID.”
West wanted to ask how many times Colquhoun had needed his stash of magic ID and cash, or why he thought he’d need either. He wanted to ask how Colquhoun’s nerves were holding up. Recognizing he wouldn’t get an answer to any of his questions, West slipped from the car. His heart seemed loud as he strode through the drizzle toward the front office, but he kept his feelings from his face as he checked in with the clerk and got a key. The clerk didn’t blink at his ID.
Returning outside, he muttered under his breath when he found the skies had opened while he’d been inside. Dashing across the lot, he helped Colquhoun from the car and into their room. At some point Colquhoun had acquired a backpack, and laundry scents rose from it as it thumped against his side when they ran. West realized Colquhoun had an entire go bag in his car.
What makes him think he’d need a go bag?
West locked the door behind them, checking it twice. He drew the drapes, and answered himself.
Because someone blew up his damned boat.
Dropping his jacket over the back of a chair, West scanned the room. It looked like a more modern version of his cabin. There were two queen beds, a television even West recognized as outdated, a kitchenette in a strange shade of yellow, a wooden table and two chairs. A door led to the washroom, which West could see had been decorated in the same yellow as the kitchenette. Like a stain left by turmeric.
Colquhoun stood with his arms folded in the center of the room, his hair dripping in wet snakes down his back after their dash across the parking lot. He eyed the beds like someone had died in them. Taking a quick sniff, West couldn’t smell anything untoward, but bleach tended to overpower his nose. He decided against mentioning his opinion to Colquhoun. Taking a seat on the edge of the bed nearest the door, West picked at a loose thread in the blanket.
“I got us two nights,” he said, working the thread free. “In case you were wondering.”
Colquhoun hummed in acknowledgment, his gaze somewhere over West’s shoulder and through the wall to the next room. Maybe mages could see through walls? That would be neat.
Terrifying, like so much about Colquhoun was terrifying, but neat.
When Colquhoun didn’t say anything, West chanced a surreptitious sniff but smelled nothing from him other than fear-sweat and an undercurrent of justifiable anger. Returning to the blanket, he rolled the loose thread into a ball and flicked it toward the trash can, not sure if he missed or not.
“Should we call the police? Or Meta Law? Or the MAA, I guess.” Who do you think blew up your boat? But West couldn’t ask that. It wasn’t his place and it wouldn’t be helpful.
Besides, what if it had been Dana?
“Christ, the MAA.” Colquhoun started into motion, rummaging through the bag he’d dropped on the table and withdrawing an older-model cell phone. He waved it at West. “I need to make some calls. Are you—Hell, West. Are you all right? I didn’t think to ask.”
Tangled in thought, West didn’t answer straightaway. His expression must’ve seemed strange, as Colquhoun frowned slightly and stepped forward, dithering as if he didn’t know quite what he meant to do. Water dripped from his hair, and West stood quickly, shoulders drawing up when Colquhoun flinched. West stilled and made sure to soften his voice when he spoke.
“A towel. I just—I wanted to get you a towel. For your hair.”
Please don’t be afraid of me.
His father said that’s what humans did. They feared and let their fear control their actions. After his own fear had taken the literal wheel and drove him from the cottage, West didn’t think irrationality was unique to humans, but he didn’t know what Colquhoun might do when distressed. And distress would be rational in their current situation.
West’s mouth twisted at his circuitous thoughts. I don’t want him to be afraid.
As if anything could be as easy.
Colquhoun laughed shakily and waved his hand. “A towel would be great, thank you.”
Nodding, West retrieved a thin towel from the eye-searing washroom and handed it to Colquhoun. Their hands touched briefly. Retaking his place on the bed, West clasped his hands between his knees and watched Colquhoun squeeze water from his hair with one hand, tapping his phone with the other. When someone answered and Colquhoun raised his eyebrows in an apologetic kind of expression, excusing himself to the washroom, West realized he’d been staring into space for minutes.
Is this shock?
West rubbed his face. The image of Colquhoun’s boat exploding replayed behind his eyes. Fire streaking the water, a burst of smoke and noise, his heart thumping in his ears and the fevered urge to run—and to take Colquhoun with him. He hadn’t paused to question the instinct, just gathered Colquhoun in his arms and went.
Groaning into his hands, West belatedly realized most humans wouldn’t be able to sprint with a grown man in their arms. Little wonder Colquhoun had flinched from him.
Curling his hand into a fist, West resisted the urge to punch the bed in frustration. Instead he crossed to the washroom and knocked lightly on the door. Colquhoun’s low conversation cut out. West could smell cinnamon.
“I’m going out for coffee. Will you be okay?”
“I’ll be fine,” Colquhoun answered. He sounded farther away than the other side of the door. “Be careful.”
West didn’t answer, but he carried Colquhoun’s words in his heart as he slipped outside. Be careful. The last person to say those words had been Dana, when she broke him out of the holding cells. He’d still been shaking, but by then mostly from shock rather than rage, and his hands had been painted with blood from fighting Lyle. When light split through the open door, he’d thought Lyle had come to finish what he’d started, to kill West and take the pack. But it had been Dana, with sad eyes and determination in the line of her mouth. She’d tossed West a backpack of his clothes and some food, and stuffed cash in his hands. “You’ve got to run or he’s going to kill you,” she’d said, pressing a kiss to his cheek. He’d smelled salt from her tears. “Be careful, West.”
Dana couldn’t have destroyed the boat. She wasn’t that type of person.
The Hargreaves pack could change her mind.
West shook his head to clear the memory and his suspicions. He headed for the office and the machine he remembered seeing there, more to give himself something to do than with any expectation it would be better than the coffee in their room. He smiled at the clerk, but her wary expression suggested he hadn’t done very well. Coffee achieved, he went outside to sit on a low wall that surrounded a pathetic scrap of a flowerbed, then dialed Joe’s number at the diner. It rang twice before someone answered.
“Joe’s Diner.”
The brusque voice made West’s eyes sting. “Joe. It’s me.” He paused. “West, I mean.”
“How many fucking strays you think I got, I wouldn’t recognize your voice? What’s wrong? Is it that fucking mage?”
“It’s not him. It’s—” West didn’t want to tell Joe about the boat. It felt too much like he’d done something wrong. Like he’d be saying Colquhoun did som
ething wrong. He played with the plastic lip of the coffee lid. “I don’t know. I shouldn’t have called.”
“Don’t be stupid.” Joe huffed. “The MAA haven’t found anything on your place yet. They seem fucking interested, though. You in trouble, pup?”
West shook his head before realizing Joe couldn’t see. “No. I mean, no more than I was before.”
“Good.”
West didn’t know what else to say. Neither he nor Joe were much in the way of conversationalists, though the days passed quickly enough when they were in the kitchen together. “You know you can always come back,” Joe said, more solemn than his usual invective. “We’d find you somewhere if you wanted. In the bush if you like.”
“I know,” West said, realizing he did. He blew out a breath. “Thank you. I’m—I’ll call when I can.”
“Fucking right you will.”
Joe hung up as if he’d reached his quota of comfort for the day. For the week, probably. Joe had been a rock when West blew in the breeze across Canada, but he expressed himself about as well as one, most days.
West allowed himself a moment to wipe his eyes before picking up the coffees and returning to the room. A myriad of roadside scents made him wrinkle his nose as he walked around the outbuilding, smelling exhaust and the strange staleness of places where no one really lived. He thought it should’ve been night, as his body weighed heavy with the events of the day, but the sun had scarcely reached its peak.
West let himself into their room with a minimum of spilled coffee. Concentrating, he set the coffee on the table before comprehending what Colquhoun was doing. “Do you think we should—What are you doing?”
Colquhoun looked up from the small fire between his feet. “I can explain.”
West gestured to the fire licking from the pop can, neatly halved. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Nonetheless, Colquhoun seemed to hear him. Twisting his wrists, like he had the first day at the cottage, Colquhoun shrugged like a wolf shaking water. The fire went out. Colquhoun spread his hands and tilted his head, a smile quirking his lips. West could all but hear the “ta-da.”
