by Parker Foye
“Magic?” West asked, though he felt foolish. What else would it have been? Arson?
More arson?
Colquhoun held his thumb and forefinger close together. “A touch. To keep us safe while we—or one of the meta agencies, which is my preference—find out what happened to my yacht.”
Taking a seat on the edge of his bed, West took off his shoes as he spoke. “You don’t want to investigate for yourself?”
“I’ve been advised by my lawyer that I shouldn’t. And the MAA don’t care for me much, if I’m honest. I’d rather do things by the book on this occasion.”
West waited, but Colquhoun didn’t elaborate. They sat in a silence that rapidly turned awkward the longer it stretched. If Colquhoun’s thoughts aligned with West’s, he’d be realizing how little they knew about each other. West set his shoes aside and toed the thin carpet, rethinking the coffee. Colquhoun’s demonstration of magic made his brain itch with wakefulness. From the way Colquhoun had settled on his own bed, drumming his fingers lightly on the sheets, he didn’t need the caffeine either.
West couldn’t take any more of the tension. He blew out a breath. “I think this is my fault. I’m so sorry.”
Colquhoun started from his contemplation of the sheets. “What?”
“First my cabin, now your boat.” Dana’s presence weighed on West’s conscience. Her appearance couldn’t have been a coincidence. He didn’t want to doubt her, but circumstances forced suspicion. “They have to be linked.”
“No, that can’t be right. I checked and there’s no—” Colquhoun waved his hand unhelpfully. “It can’t be. My spells would’ve sounded.”
“There’s something I have to tell you.” The citrus of Colquhoun’s scent grew sharp, and he sat straight on the bed, crossing his long legs and tilting his chin. West felt like a student in class, and he crossed the room to fuss with his coffee, wishing he’d kept his mouth shut.
“Is this about you running off the other night?” West nodded. “And why we couldn’t find anything about you?”
“You looked?”
Colquhoun snorted and began to knead a pillow between his hands. “Of course we looked. Can’t get engaged to any random person, you know.”
I did.
The admission probably wouldn’t help their conversation. West’s desperation was a given, or he wouldn’t have been in the hotel room. He wouldn’t have ever met Colquhoun to worry about.
The thought made West pause and take a seat at the table. Am I worried about him?
He glanced at Colquhoun through his lashes, finding Colquhoun looking back with a curious expression. The way some of the diner regulars had looked at West when he slipped up, but less like he was something to fix. More like West was a question Colquhoun wanted answered. The curiosity made his eyes shine.
West already knew Colquhoun was beautiful, like the models on billboards, and the distressingly yellow motel room made him no less so. His long hair had started to curl at the ends as it dried, and his clothes were rumpled from West’s hands when he carried him. He seemed less distant than the supermodel mage West first met. Touchable.
West flushed, remembering how Colquhoun felt in his arms. He hadn’t noticed at the time, what with panic beating hard in his heart, but Colquhoun had fit perfectly.
Really not the time to remember that.
West was worried about Colquhoun for more reasons than guilt and fitting like puzzle pieces. He liked what little he’d learned about Colquhoun, his sharp edges and soft smiles and all. He wanted to learn more. He wanted Colquhoun to know more.
“I left my father’s pack last year,” West said, like ripping off a Band-Aid. “I’m a… a wolf meta, you call it. The Hargreaves pack call themselves ‘lycan’ still. They’re traditionalists, I suppose you’d say.”
The pillow tore in Colquhoun’s hands with a flash of sparks. “You’re a Hargreaves? You said your name was Irving.”
“The—the pillow—”
Colquhoun waved his hands impatiently, smothering the last of the sparks with the corner of the bedsheet. “Nothing to worry about. Explain about being a Hargreaves.”
Seemed his father’s reputation had traveled even to Colquhoun’s ears. West nodded warily, watching Colquhoun. He set his coffee down, just in case. “Irving is my mother’s name. My father never gave me his because I’m secondborn.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I argued with the pack about the Rabid spell crossing into our territory, and—and other things, and I left. And on yesterday’s full moon—”
“Of course!” Colquhoun had stiffened at the mention of Rabid, and West watched for sparks, but he relaxed again and nodded. His hair fell over his eyes. “I can’t believe I didn’t realize it was the full moon.”
“Humans don’t, usually. I learned that much. But yesterday I saw Dana—someone from the pack. And I should’ve mentioned it, but I didn’t think she would do something like this. I still don’t think she can. But who else would? It has to be my fault. I’m so sorry. I should go.”
“And where will you go?”
The question hit West like a truck. Joe had offered to find somewhere for him, but how could West take his trouble to Joe’s doorstep? If the pack were following him, they’d already know his connection to Joe. Continuing to stay away would be the safest action.
He didn’t have anywhere to go. The truth made West feel hollow. His circumstances hadn’t changed, only the days on the calendar.
He rubbed his face and looked at his feet, like a kicked dog. “I don’t know.”
Toes nudged his and West glanced up, finding Colquhoun had drawn the other chair up to sit kitty-corner at the table. He nudged West’s foot again, the gesture made more absurd by socks patterned with tiny robots.
“You don’t have to go anywhere. I don’t think it was your pack that destroyed my yacht.”
“Then who?”
Colquhoun’s eyes narrowed to gold-ringed coal. “My cousins. Philip, you remember him? He and his sister want to inherit, and I’m in the way. Cards on the table, darling, we’re to be wed for an inheritance issue. So I’m afraid I can’t let you go—unless you really must, of course. But if you’re only talking of leaving out of some misguided concern for my safety, you shouldn’t.” He flashed a sharp grin. “I’m a mage, after all. I’m more than capable of looking after myself.”
“You shouldn’t have to,” West blurted out.
Whatever Colquhoun had been about to say, he bit back with a startled expression. His toes rested on top of West’s, like he’d forgotten they were there. Cinnamon and citrus crowded the room.
“What?”
Furballs.
West spoke quickly, trying to cover for his mistake. “Not that you can’t, I believe you, but you shouldn’t have to. I mean, I put you in danger—”
“I literally just said—”
“—so the responsibility is mine and—”
“—you didn’t have all the facts—”
“—I’m worried about you.”
Colquhoun’s mouth snapped shut. Despite his heart pounding in his ears and the sick roll of guilt in his gut, West wanted to grin. How many times had people managed to surprise Colquhoun into silence? And West had managed it twice in as many minutes.
That he’d surprised himself equally as much didn’t need to be admitted.
“You barely know me,” Colquhoun managed to say.
“I want to. And I want to stay.”
“Because you don’t have anywhere to go. Not until I fix your cabin.”
West tried not to take the cruel words personally. Colquhoun sounded—and smelled—more confused than accusatory, as if he tried to convince himself more than West.
West didn’t need convincing. It was true he had nowhere to go, but that lessened in importance when put next to the question of what he’d be leaving behind. He’d only realized it as he argued, but if he’d brought Hargreaves trouble to Colquhoun—or if a different trouble had found him, and West could
help somehow—he didn’t want to walk away. Running once had been one time too many. He wouldn’t do it again.
And when he considered leaving Colquhoun—leaving Julian—West twisted with unease, as if his instincts fought against the notion. They’d had little time together, but West wanted more. He wanted to stay. Not to protect Julian, or from guilt, or for his cabin and the magic Julian had promised to repair, but to see Julian colored by sunrise again. To share meals. To learn.
Reaching out, West cupped Julian’s clever hands with his, where Julian held the cup of coffee. Magic ran in the veins he could see under Julian’s thin skin, while the scars on his own hands were a map of misadventure. They’d lived very different lives. He wondered how Julian’s lips would feel against his own chapped ones.
A dangerous thought. Much more dangerous than any exploding boat.
West drew circles around Julian’s knuckles as he spoke. “You’re stronger than me. And you’re so clever. I know you could go anywhere, do anything. But you said we’d help each other. Let me help you. Please.”
For a moment Julian didn’t say anything. Then he laughed, his cheeks stained with color. “If the MAA could see us now, they wouldn’t doubt our betrothal. We should take more pictures.”
It was a dash of cold water to the face. Heart thick in his ears, West rose jerkily to his feet, needing to put distance between them. A sting beneath his sternum made him want to double over and protect his vulnerable belly, but the reaction came much too late. He couldn’t look at Julian’s face, couldn’t think how close he’d been to asking for a kiss, like they could be such a thing for each other.
They were convenient, that was all. West had allowed himself to forget that. Evidently Julian—as much as West wanted to call him Colquhoun again, he couldn’t—hadn’t forgotten who they were. Good that one of them knew.
“West, wait!”
West didn’t let himself listen. He couldn’t. He glanced unseeingly around the motel room one last time and walked out.
Chapter Eight
JULIAN sat on the bed for a long time, watching the closed door of the motel room and wondering why he’d fucked up so spectacularly. Not how. He knew how—fucking up was easy; he’d been doing it for years. But why. Shock from the yacht? Nerves from sitting in close proximity to a Hargreaves meta? A delayed reaction to every step that took him from the high life in Las Vegas to some third-rate motel in Who Fucking Knew, ON, in a scant few days?
Julian flopped back onto the bed, undoubtedly immediately contracting something unpleasant from the lurid bedspread. He expelled a breath and closed his eyes. He knew why he’d fucked up. He’d heard West say “Rabid” and locked inside himself, as if that would protect him when all his bad decisions came home to roost.
The name of the spell sounded harsh, as Lyle had intended it, but West’s gentle touch—that had been a surprise.
It shouldn’t have been. For a man with such visible strength and presence, West held himself with restraint and sometimes an endearing awkwardness, as if he’d melt into the background if it would have him. Of course he’d be gentle, holding Julian’s hands and saying please in a sweet voice that made Julian’s brain go sideways to a bedroom. They could have kissed, then. West’s lips had been an invitation Julian wanted to accept. But Julian could scarcely hear anything over “Hargreaves” in his ears like a siren.
So Julian had destroyed the moment with an ill-timed crack about evidence for their sham marriage. And West had left.
Julian had done some shit in his time, but the wrenching feeling in his chest was new. Curling up on the bed, he let himself twist with guilt for several heavy beats of his heart, until the scratchiness of the sheets became too much and he got to his feet. The soda can with its ashes sat like an accusing black eye in the middle of the room, and Julian moved it aside; his protection spell had been hasty, but he could feel the thrum of energy ringing the room like a wedding band.
Thanks, brain. Excellent choice of imagery.
He never had chance to get their wedding rings.
Concentrate, Julian.
Grabbing the burner phone from his emergency bag, Julian thumbed through the short list of contacts. He’d already called Lauren and Mariko to update them on the situation and to set the wheels in motion with keeping the MAA from looking too closely in his direction. The suits already didn’t care for him, with his refusal to toe the line on registration, and the last thing they needed was an excuse to investigate any of his properties. Not to mention the ongoing situation with the will and his maybe-not-illegal but definitely-not-aboveboard arrangement with West.
Julian needed to find West. Everything came back to him, and Julian had sat like an arsehole and watched him leave.
Contemplating his failure, Julian nearly shit himself when his phone started to ring in his hand. He glanced at the display to confirm the caller, unsurprised it was Lauren. Lauren had all his numbers. Julian answered as he put on his shoes.
“Not a great time, to be honest.”
“And this’ll make it worse. I finally got a hit on your betrothed,” Lauren said, making the word sound like an expletive.
Julian grimaced, though no one could see. “About that—”
“Rumors are the Hargreaves youngest is called Westley. And he’s been missing since last summer, gone under a cloud. That would mean—”
“I know what it means,” Julian interrupted. He rubbed his chest with the heel of his hand, pacing in the small room. “And West is Hargreaves. He told me.”
“When the fuck were you going to mention this?” Lauren asked, her voice high.
“He just mentioned it! When did I have a chance?”
They breathed at each other down the phone. Lauren knew Julian’s history with the Hargreaves family, and everyone with half an ear to the meta community knew the Hargreaves pack by reputation. An outlier in the modern push for meta integration, Hargreaves still thought pack came before people. That it wasn’t possible to be both.
Julian had come face-to-face with that particular line of Hargreaves philosophy when he’d dated Lyle Hargreaves, the pack heir. Though “dated” was a much nicer word than anything they’d done. They’d met when Julian had been on a research trip near Dauphin, Manitoba. The trip had rapidly devolved into a grief cycle when Julian received the news about his mother’s death, and Lyle had been the nearest willing warm body.
They’d lasted five months. Julian had spent his days rattling between bedroom and laboratory under a fog of alcohol fumes, only learning later Lyle hadn’t restricted himself to the former. It had been Julian’s understanding theirs was a purely physical relationship, and that Lyle went about doing—whatever he did when they weren’t together, but at some point, Lyle had invited himself into Julian’s workspace and taken what he wanted.
For Julian, invention was distraction, and his lab was sacrosanct. During those six months, he’d conjured popcorn-flavor vodka, floating ice cream, and all manner of harmless toys, letting his magic go in the safe space he’d created. Yet Lyle had taken Julian’s worst mistake and turned it for profit. He called it Rabid.
How long would those months haunt him? Julian needed to access his mother’s library and the Spell of Undoing. Maybe after he’d destroyed all traces of the original Rabid formula, he could dial his entire life back far enough that he’d have nothing to regret.
“I have to find him, Lauren,” Julian said, massaging his temple where his brain beat against his skull like it wanted out. “He thinks the pack are after him.”
“Are they?”
“They could be. But I don’t think so. I’m—I’m fucking worried about him, is what I am. I barely know him, but I feel sick thinking about if he’s in danger. If he hates me.”
Lauren made a noise Julian couldn’t interpret. “Is all this really worth it?”
How many lives had Julian ruined through something he never should have invented? His grief had been terrible enough before, but after Lyle stole the formula,
it had dogged his every step since. A shadow he couldn’t shake. A wound that never healed but grew dreadful with infection, consuming everything it touched. Every reminder of Rabid took him back to those terrible months.
Julian couldn’t tell Lauren what he’d done. He couldn’t tell anyone. Better they think he wanted money, that he ran scared from responsibility like the child he’d acted. Anything but the truth.
“I need a new yacht, don’t I?” he said, the words like ash in his mouth.
“Christ. Go on, then. I’ll call you back if the MAA get anything about the boat.”
“Okay. And thank you, Lauren. Seriously.”
Pocketing the phone, Julian grabbed his jacket and headed outside. After checking with the disinterested clerk, who hadn’t seen West since he picked up the coffee, he returned to the parking lot and stopped.
West was gone. But where would West even go? The car was still there, and the motel was in an isolated spot off the highway, without even a service station to try for a ride. Mouth twisting, Julian rubbed his chest again. A niggling pain lingered beneath his sternum as if he was short of breath, but he was breathing fine. A page fluttered in the dusty library of his mind, but Julian couldn’t see the book to examine it more closely.
A car backfiring on its way into the lot made Julian start, and he rolled his eyes at his reaction, trying to ignore the heat rising to his face. The panic he’d managed to—almost—successfully quash came back twice as hard, and he retreated to the motel room, feeling ridiculous. The Skyview evidently hadn’t consulted any mages during construction, since he saw no protection runes carved into the doorframes. Julian had only himself for defense, and he could do the job as easily outside.
But walls were comforting. They satisfied some animal need, a place to retreat.
Julian sat on the edge of “his” bed. He had to accept West was gone, at least in the short-term. He didn’t want to. He felt like shit about the situation, but casting location spells when West had been gone mere minutes seemed like an overreaction. Besides, he didn’t have the ingredients. And anyway, West was a meta and could take care of himself.
