by Parker Foye
A Hargreaves meta.
They’d known each other a short time, but West didn’t seem anything like Lyle. They barely looked alike, much less shared any of the same personality traits. Julian and Lyle had used each other for warmth in the freezing Manitoba winter, only for Lyle to grow colder still when Julian tried to climb out of the pit his grief had dug.
He’d realized then that Lyle had found a second use for Julian: cash cow.
Put that aside. Work on the next problem.
Who destroyed his yacht?
He’d told West he suspected Philip and Emily of attempting to get rid of him for the will, but the action seemed extreme. And also, not quite extreme enough. He hadn’t been on the yacht, after all. And for all their cracks about “magicians,” his cousins knew Julian had enough magic to have protected damn near everything he owned.
That fucking will.
If it wasn’t for access to the library, Julian would be tempted to let his cousins inherit. He had more than enough money to live comfortably, and it would mean not having to stage the deceit with West. A magical bond? Who believed in those in the twenty-first century, let alone thought they’d be able to prove one existed? Julian rested his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, dragging his hair from his face. His student Nolan had tried to convince him bonds were real. Julian had marked his essay on the merits of his sources, muttering under his breath about bullshit the entire time.
Grabbing his phone before he thought better of it, Julian sent Nolan an email asking for references to bonds. Research had long been Julian’s way of escaping the moment—see the debacle with Rabid for a particularly stellar example—and he could excuse the reading as relevant, at least. Idly, Julian wondered again who Nolan might be, aside from a meta. The kid had to be a meta to believe so strongly, since bonds were like fairy tales to some. Did West believe? Julian snorted, tossing the phone back on the bed.
Everything keeps coming back to West. Westley Irving. Hargreaves.
Who probably hated Julian now, and who he needed more than ever.
“Fuck.”
Curling on the bedspread, Julian twisted his fingers to activate the protection spell and laid his head on his hands. He closed his eyes. If he could sleep, everything might be fixed when he woke. West would return soon.
Wolves followed him into his dreams.
JULIAN woke to the ringing of his burner phone. Scrambling to switch off the terrible noise, he nearly fell out of bed when his feet tangled in the sheets. With a vicious twist of his hand, he incinerated the sheet in a blast of flames, then spent the next thirty seconds cursing and trying to pat out the small fires freckling the bedspread.
Of course, the person calling would be Mariko. His lawyer had the best timing.
Leaning his hip against the rickety wooden table, Julian eyed the bed in case of spontaneous combustion—it was going around—and greeted Mariko.
“Good—evening?” he amended, checking the time on his phone.
He’d slept five hours, and West hadn’t returned. Something was wrong. Julian scarcely heard Mariko over the thump of panic in his ears, but when he did, he pressed the phone closer to his ear.
“—found your cousins. Meta Law arrested them on suspicion of blowing the shit out of your floating quarterlife crisis. They’re currently being detained in Sudbury, pending further investigation.”
Julian raised his eyebrows, though there was no one to see. “Am I paying for this call?”
“It’s a courtesy call.”
She must be worried about me. Mariko thought courtesy was something you did in front of the Queen.
“Then thanks. How did you hear about this?”
“I have sources. I can be charming.”
Julian wanted to giggle but resisted the impulse. Giggling didn’t give the right impression of how seriously he took the situation. And he took the situation very fucking seriously. West, and his cousins, and everything between.
“Did Meta Law find anything around the yacht?”
Mariko made a negative noise. “I didn’t hear, but probably no or they’d have charged them with something.”
“Shit. They’ll have to let them go.”
“You pay me to ensure that kind of thing doesn’t happen. So let me take care of things.” Mariko’s tone changed. “How are things on your end, with the will? You’re paying me now.”
Julian rubbed his chest, where the nagging pain had yet to fade despite his nap. “Things are shitty.”
“As suspected. But you have to keep on with whatever I can’t know you’re doing.” Mariko shuffled papers at her end of the line. “In light of recent events, I pressed the MAA to forgo the caveats of the will, but they’re binding. Mage Matilda wanted you wed.”
“She always said I needed more than my books. Guess this was one way of ensuring it.”
“That’s a conversation for your therapist, not your lawyer. They’re cheaper.”
“Thanks, as always, for your concern.” Julian relented. “I mean it. Thanks, Mariko.”
“The bill will be in the mail,” Mariko said, then hung up.
Leaving Julian in the putrid motel room, alone. Again.
He sighed. “Even for me, this is pathetic.”
Crossing to the dinky, snot-colored washroom, Julian splashed cold water on his face. He looked bedraggled, his nap having helped not at all. A pathetic state of affairs for any mage, let alone someone of his class. Running from danger? From the MAA? Letting his friends take on burdens not theirs to bear? He scrubbed his face with the towel, his thoughts circling the drain as his brain again lighted on the most nagging issue: West had been missing for hours, and he didn’t seem the type to disappear.
Julian needed to take action. I got myself into this shit. I’m the only one who can get myself out.
He pulled a face. Me and my betrothed, anyway.
Frowning at his reflection, Julian jerked away from the mirror and walked into the main room, gathered the few belongings, and stashed them in his emergency bag.
The last thing he grabbed were the car keys West had left on the bedside table.
THE cottage sat quiet as if it were still the peaceful refuge his mother had loved. Security lights glowed within, making the night warm and inviting.
Between Julian and the front door, however, were a handful of Metaschemata Law agents and their interest in other people’s business.
Julian had parked down the road a ways and hiked the remaining distance on foot, muttering under his breath every time a rock snuck unwelcome into his shoes or a branch snagged his hair. Darkness didn’t help him navigate, and more than one flirtatious branch found the rough end of Julian’s temper. He liked to think of it as self-directed pruning.
Julian liked nature well enough, but on his own terms. Like on dates with West, to pick an entirely random example. Nature just got in the way the rest of the time.
Though, without the handy knot of trees to lurk behind, Julian would have been lost to Meta Law minutes ago. They had several portable magelights studded around the perimeter of his property lines, and they’d see him instantly if he moved. But between the trees and his spells, he had a chance to run to the cottage unseen.
Not literally, of course. Julian didn’t run.
Two parallel tracks of scorched earth showed where one of the agents had tried Julian’s protection spells and found an enthusiastic reception. Someone had obviously told them not to bother a second time, which was good. Julian didn’t want to scar anyone for doing their job; legalized protection spells usually went hard at the first intrusion, as a warning, but standard practice called for only one warning before turning lethal. Being a generous soul, and already burdened with regret, Julian had added a second—but Meta Law didn’t need to know that. They knew Julian’s reputation and were welcome to draw their own conclusions. Most people did.
Watching the comings and goings of the agents, Julian tried to work out what they were doing. Their mage kept pacing
along the path to the lake, while the two agents in baseball caps pulled low seemed to be focusing on their coffee rather than anything explosion-related.
Are my taxes going toward this shit? Julian flicked a leaf near his face, irritated. And they want my inheritance tax too. Arseholes.
Though he’d taken pains to arrive unnoticed, Julian couldn’t handle being an observer any longer. Tying his hair back and straightening his clothes, Julian reached for his most haughty expression. He missed his sunglasses and an audience in on the joke.
Beggars can’t be choosers.
Julian stepped out from behind the trees and spread his fingers, letting strands of magic play over his hands. Twirling his pinky, he gave a little tug, pulling sparks from the air in a bright hiss of noise.
Julian loved an entrance.
“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” he asked, his voice carrying across the night.
Nearest to him, the mage reacted first and raised her hands, only to scowl and lower them after recognizing him. She flicked a brooch on her collar and the agents each touched their ears, as if listening. Julian found himself reluctantly impressed as whatever signal the mage sent made the agents holster their weapons. Meta Law evidently held the opinions of a mage in higher regard than the MAA, somewhat ironically.
“Mage Julian Colquhoun?” one of the agents asked. Her partner snapped his gum, as if in echo.
Julian inclined his head, hearing his mother’s voice. Manners, Julian. “And you?”
“Agent Oliviera.” She gestured to her colleague. “Agent Brent. And Mage—”
“Reinhardt,” the mage interrupted, speaking over Oliviera. Clearly an alias.
Rolling his eyes, Julian covered the gesture by flicking his hair. Some magic users of previous generations still held with “to know a thing’s name is to have power over it,” but Mage Matilda had disproved that empirically before the turn of the century. Superstitions were stifling. Julian didn’t have time for them.
“Lovely to meet you all, I’m sure, but if you could immediately remove yourselves from my property, that would be wonderful. I need to check on my installations.”
“What do you think we’re doing?” Reinhardt asked, irritated.
Julian gestured to the twin scorch marks in the dirt. “Landscaping, by the looks of things.”
Oliviera stepped between them before things could get heated—figuratively or otherwise—and raised her hands. Small-statured but with a presence twice her size, she made Julian think of West. Something about her quiet confidence as she stood between two mages who could turn her inside out.
Although, she did have a gun on her hip. That would probably help. Unlike Brent, who only snapped his gum again.
“All right, no egos today. Mage Colquhoun, we’ve inspected your property, or as much as we could, and haven’t found anything to indicate further threats are likely. We have two suspects in custody and will be questioning them. With your extensive protection spells in place, my colleague here thinks you’ll be fine. But one of us can stay this evening, if you’d prefer?”
There is literally nothing I’d like less.
Julian made his mouth smile. Reinhardt flinched. Seemed at least she knew of Julian’s—Mage Colquhoun’s—reputation.
“Thanks ever so, but I’ll be fine. Just one thing.” Julian snapped his fingers, making the sparks ignite again, a group clustering near the path to the cottage. Something sizzled, followed by the sound of tearing paper. His face hurt from keeping the smile on. “I think you left something behind, there.”
Listening spells. Meta Law mages were heavy-handed, to say the least.
Her face as deceptively placid as the lake in summer, Oliviera tipped her chin at him before jerking her head at Brent and Reinhardt.
“Back to the station, then. Thank you for your time, Mage Colquhoun. We’ll be in touch.”
Julian didn’t move as the Meta Law team gathered their magelights, each one snuffing out as Reinhardt touched them. Like stars winking out, full darkness descended in their absence, broken by the few lights in the cottage and the flare of headlights as Brent drove the team away. Julian watched until their taillights became another star and then, eventually, nothing. He rubbed his chest. It still hurt, and conclusions were starting to press on the door in his mind he’d shoved them behind. No empirical evidence. Anecdotal evidence doesn’t count. Bonds weren’t real.
Twisting his hand in a range of motions, Julian stepped through the protection spells and let himself into the cottage. Grabbing his tablet from the hall table, he flicked his fingers distractedly to ignite the magelights set at intervals up the stairs, then followed the trail up. He drew his fingers across the library doorway as he passed but didn’t linger. His destination was farther along the corridor, up the second set of stairs, which led to the attic and his laboratory.
When he was younger, Julian had wanted a laboratory like he imaged Frankenstein’s to be. Ancient wooden tables studded with glass beakers and curling tubes, with odd-colored liquids and the occasional small fire. A dome set in the ceiling to call down lightning and stand beneath, cackling. As he grew, he realized he wasn’t that sort of mage. Some were, and they worked with chemicals both mundane and magical, but Julian didn’t feel the call to material magic. He dabbled, but his passion lay elsewhere.
He opened the door to the attic and pulled off his shirt, almost in the same motion, the action ingrained. The skylight set in the eaves—as close as he came to his Frankenstein dream—had initially showed a changing sky, should the lakeside weather be grim, but sometime last winter, it had become stuck on an overcast spring day and Julian hadn’t bothered fixing it. He flicked the lights on instead, wincing at the harsh electric glare until his eyes settled. Magelights couldn’t be used in his workspace in case of magical contamination.
After taking off his shoes and socks, Julian set them neatly by the door. He squatted quickly in his jeans, testing the give, and decided they could stay. A location spell didn’t need much movement. It needed only magic and a focus.
Wiping his hand on his jeans, Julian unlocked his tablet and opened the folder of photographs. Without hesitating, he opened his favorite of West on the yacht, his head tilted back and his eyes closed, like he breathed the sun in. His lips curved, ever so slightly, at something Julian had said. Breath catching, Julian rubbed at his chest and ached. For the mess with Lyle to come back and haunt him was one thing, but while Julian was half-bonded with his brother?
Possibly. Possibly half-bonded.
Julian set down the tablet where he could see it, making sure the screen wouldn’t dim. He stepped back once, twice, to the corner of the vinyl flooring set beneath the skylight, and got into first position. Closing his eyes, he exhaled slowly and slid into second, wrapping lines of magic around his wrists and tugging until he was nearly suspended. For a moment Julian let himself hang, thinking about West and the way he’d looked on the yacht. The way he laughed. His chapped lips and soft hands.
Then Julian began to dance.
Chapter Nine
AFTER leaving Julian, West stood in the parking lot for a long minute, breathing hard. His blood beat in his ears and his vision swam, though with anger or tears he couldn’t decide. Swiping his eyes with his sleeve, he set his jaw and tried to think.
“If the MAA could see us now, they wouldn’t doubt our betrothal. We should take more pictures.”
West kicked at a rock with a burst of frustration, then winced when it ricocheted off a car and rocketed into the grass. When no alarm sounded, he let his shoulders relax. The last thing he wanted was to embarrass himself any further with Julian, and setting off a car alarm through a childish fit would certainly fit the bill.
He’d embarrassed himself enough already by daring to think there could be more between them. All Julian saw when he looked at West was a useful tool.
And that’s fine. If that’s all they were to each other, West could get—back—on board with the plan. He would
get on board with the plan.
As soon as the awful pain in his chest dissipated. West scrubbed his hand through his hair and stared unseeingly at the parking lot. He’d heard enough stories to know what a bond felt like in the beginning stages. Prof Wylie said anecdotal data didn’t count, but metas were notoriously close-lipped about matters of bonding with those outside their inner circles. West’s father hadn’t believed in the phenomenon, or at least hadn’t cared enough about bonding to ever mention it, but Dana loved the idea. She’d shared all kinds of stories with West, from their history and legends, and he’d stopped dismissing the possibility.
The nagging ache in his chest obliterated what remained of his doubt. If he concentrated on the source of the pain, he could trace it over his shoulder—into the motel room. Like a fishhook beneath his skin, the bond wanted to drag him to the other end of the line and complete what had begun.
West refused to be a damn fish on a line.
Shaking his head, West turned on his heel and started to walk the motel’s perimeter in an attempt to sweat off his mixed feelings. Exhaust fumes sat in the air like dust, and he breathed shallowly through his mouth as he passed the closed door of their room and kept going. The absence of Julian’s scent seemed larger than it should be, like an injury only noticed when it healed. Or the other way around, maybe.
A picnic bench with one of the seat slats missing sat on a scrubby patch of grass behind the motel in the least inviting eating area West had ever seen. It matched his mood. He pulled himself onto the table and crossed his legs, leaning back on his hands. Clouds were gathering toward the east because April just wouldn’t quit.
Was there a way to destroy a bond? West tried to remember what the stories said. They’d focused mainly on the endurance of bonds against great odds, and rather less on the details of building or breaking one. No citations. West snorted. He’d spent days searching for trickles of hints of information to prove to Professor Wylie that bonds existed, barely sleeping between his books and working at the diner, but the effort had paid dividends in friendship.
