Mage of Inconvenience

by Parker Foye

  Behind the knot of bodies, he saw a gray wolf slip away while the agents were distracted with Lyle. Dana. Shoving through the crowd, Julian pushed his tired body to follow her. She had to be searching for West.

  Please, God, let her be searching for West.

  He nearly trod on Dana’s tail when she stopped at the foot of an unstable-looking set of stairs, arms windmilling as he regained his balance. Catching his breath, he glanced at Dana. She nudged his knees with her cold nose and scraped her claws on the lowest step.

  “Up there? Are you sure?”

  Dana’s tail whipped back and forth in answer.

  I guess that’s a yes.

  Rubbing his chest with the heel of his hand, Julian gritted his teeth. He twisted his wrists to gather frayed edges of local magic and grabbed the railing, easing his weight onto the first step. When it held, he took the rest at a run, figuring he’d prefer a quick death to one by inches. The stairs led to an office overlooking the main floor, where the lock on the door gave way under a concentrated blast of magic. Finesse was for more rational people.

  The door buckled inward under the pressure, and the bond in Julian’s chest flared to life. Illumination from the magelights diffused through the grubby office window, shining on the scene within. Julian stumbled at the sight, using the frame to hold himself upright. Blood trailed across the room in dark splotches, and there were gouges in the floor and walls, as wide as a man’s hand. Whatever furniture had remained in the office had been torn apart, save for the desk shoved over in the far corner.

  With trepidation Julian picked across the debris and around the smears of blood. He swallowed against the thick ball of fear lodged in his throat, curling his hand tighter around magic. He wanted to rip off the mask and use his full senses, not liking his vision and hearing stifled by plastic and rubber. Even a sense of smell might’ve told him something, but instead Julian had nothing but the bond aching in his chest to tell him West was alive.

  He had to be alive.

  Julian took a sharp breath when he reached the overturned desk, and nearly fell on his arse as relief hit him in a rush.

  West huddled behind the desk, his arms wrapped around his head and his chest moving rapidly. He looked like the wrong side of a long journey, covered in blood and matted with dust, his clothes hanging in tatters, but the grime made his eyes shine all the brighter as he studied Julian through the crook in his elbow. Recognition was slow to cross his face, but as it came, he lowered one of his arms. At some point he’d split his lip, and the wound reopened as he spoke.

  “I saw you dance.”

  Not where the hell have you been? Not you sure took your damn time. Not any of the things Julian had repeated over and again in his head in West’s voice, struggling because he couldn’t imagine West angry.

  Julian was glad for the gas mask, not only for protecting him from asbestosis since he had no meta healing to rely on, but for preventing West from seeing whatever embarrassing expression his face betrayed him by wearing.

  “Sorry I took so long,” he said, helplessly.

  West shrugged one shoulder. His gaze went distant, and he touched his chest lightly. “You’re here.”

  “Sure, I—”

  West moved suddenly, twisting to his knees and reaching for Julian, only to stop and leave his hand hanging between them. His fingers were knuckle-deep with blood. Julian wanted to hold his hand but didn’t dare move. He didn’t recognize the look on West’s face, narrow-eyed and speculative. West looked like Lyle.

  Were his eyes red? In the dim light, Julian couldn’t be certain.

  “I mean, you’re here,” West said, pointing to Julian’s chest. The bond. West met Julian’s eyes as light came back into his own. “They dosed me with Rabid—”

  “Those bastards—”

  “No, it’s okay. I should’ve—It should have been bad, but it wasn’t.” West rubbed a circle over his sternum, where his shirt had clearly been shredded by claws. Blood stained the fabric. Wasn’t bad, Julian’s arse. “You were here. I wasn’t alone.” West rubbed his face, barking out a little laugh. Julian saw his eyes were red, the kind that came from crying. “I didn’t expect you’d come.”

  Desperately, Julian wanted to rip the gas mask off and press kisses to the corner of West’s watery smile. His chest stung with the bond as his eyes stung with tears, and everything was fucking awful. He could hear Meta Law arresting whoever they found downstairs, and they needed to leave to escape a similar fate, but all he wanted to do was wrap West in his arms and never let go.

  “Can I… can I hug you?” Julian figured he’d work on the “never letting go” part at a later date.

  West’s smile broadened. He lifted his arms slowly, as if unsure what to do with them.

  “Please,” he said, in the heartbreaking way he had.

  Julian rushed into West’s arms like he’d been the one betrayed by his brother, beaten and bespelled and locked in some tumbledown building, instead of just worrying about it. He leveraged the height he had on West and gathered him close, trying not to clip West with the gas mask. It couldn’t have been comfortable, but West clung to Julian’s hips like a drowning man, nuzzling into Julian’s undoubtedly sweaty neck.

  “I promise I’ll always try to find you.” Julian barely knew what he was saying, but the words broke from him like a spell. “If you want me to, I mean.” He clutched West’s tattered shirt. “I promise.”

  West’s muscles bunched under Julian’s hands as he drew back. “Sounds like a good vow.”

  The reminder of their arrangement washed Julian in cold water. Unable to hold eye contact any longer, he slid his hands down West’s firm arms and twined their fingers together. Tugging on West’s fingers, he led him carefully down the staircase, using magic to make sure it held. Every step made him ache, like gravity wanted him to feel the weight of what he’d set in motion all those months ago.

  Dana waited for them at the bottom. She’d returned to human form and wore a baggy Meta Law uniform. An agent flanked her, and Julian took a moment to recognize her with the gas mask obscuring her features. Then he placed her. Oliviera.

  “Westley Hargreaves?” Oliviera asked.

  “Irving,” West corrected like he’d done so a lot. He sounded exhausted, like the steps had taken the last of his energy.

  “Lyle Hargreaves is your brother, correct?”

  “He is.”

  Oliviera made a note in her book. “We’ll need you to come with us—”

  “That’s not going to happen.” Julian stepped between them, a beat faster than Dana. “Can’t you see he’s the victim here?”

  “Then you’re vouching for him, Mage Colquhoun?” Oliviera asked quickly, like she’d been hoping for the opportunity. Julian nodded, wary but firm, and Oliviera put away her notepad. “Can we contact you at Mage Colquhoun’s address, Mr. Irving?”

  “Sure,” West said, squeezing Julian’s hand. “I’ll be there.”

  “Very well. Don’t go anywhere, Mr. Irving. Mage Colquhoun.”

  Julian snorted. “Not planning on it.”

  Oliviera nodded at them both, giving them one last look before rejoining her team. Did Brent have gum inside his gas mask? Julian didn’t spot the other agent before Dana diverted his attention as she darted forward to rub her nose along West’s jaw and whisper something low in his ear before going to join the agents like she belonged there. Maybe she did.

  Julian’s everything hurt. He reached to massage the bridge of his nose with his free hand, only to be thwarted by his mask.

  His everything stopped hurting when West pressed a soft kiss to the part of Julian’s temple not covered by the mask. Warmth rippled out from the place his lips touched, the bond resonating in turn. Julian wanted to curl inside West’s arms and let the world carry on without them.

  As if reading his mind, West whispered, “Take me home.” Another kiss. “We need to talk.”

  Julian went cold.

  Chapter Eleven
/>   WEST barely noticed the minutes passing on the long drive back to the cottage. Every mile took them away from the bitter-scented building where his pack had left him for dead, and toward the place he’d started to come alive. Julian had tried to initiate a conversation when they first got in the car, but West waved him off. Too tired and sore with open wounds barely healing over, and not confident he could articulate his complicated feelings, he wanted to postpone conversation until they reached the cottage. The place his tired mouth had dared call “home.”

  West forced his shoulders to relax and let his eyes fall closed, drifting to the rhythm of the car rumbling along the highway and Julian breathing beside him. Behind his eyelids, memories played, and he let them unfold.

  Lyle’s sneer.

  “Me and Jules go way back. He helped me with a business venture, back in the day.”

  The pack’s betrayal.

  “Didn’t Jules tell you? He invented Rabid.”

  Julian, dancing with shadows at his fingertips.

  The last image kept repeating, like Joe’s crappy jukebox before someone kicked it. Julian’s fierce determination, the way his gold eyes glowed in clean counterpoint to Rabid red, smoldering behind the lens of his gas mask. Even as he displayed his vulnerability with the mask, he showed his strength in overcoming the pack. And for what? His boat? Julian could surely buy another. Magic one, even, if magic worked that way.

  For West?

  West hadn’t imagined anyone would come for him. He’d thought he’d spend his last sane moments in the crappy office, his only companions decades of grime and badly spelled graffiti, waiting to tear himself apart.

  He’d come close. Grooves in the walls and floor, and splinters in the safety glass had told the story of the Rabid taking hold of him. He wore his struggle against the spell in claw marks. But the spell had failed to take root. The bond had acted as an anchor for his sanity. West didn’t remember much, but the wreck of his shirt showed he’d tried to claw out the sweet ache of his bond to Julian—and failed.

  Taking shelter behind the desk, he’d curled up and waited for the Rabid to pass, or for Lyle to return and try again to break him. Yet Julian—and Dana; West recognized her scent—came instead, and at great risk to themselves.

  God, West wanted to kiss him. His desire overwhelmed the doubt originating from Lyle’s claim, throbbing in his body like a bruise. West shifted in his seat and kept his eyes closed, certain they must show his longing. Dana had certainly seen it when she whispered he should take Julian home and tell him about the bond. He curled his hands into fists on his thighs to prevent himself from reaching to his chest.

  The car began to slow. “We’re here,” Julian whispered, like he didn’t want to wake West if he was sleeping. The car rocked gently into Park.

  West let his head loll to the side and opened his eyes, smiling to find Julian watching him. Red indentations from the mask lingered around Julian’s cheeks like pillow creases, but nothing as innocent. Behind him, the sun had started to rise, filling the car with soft light.

  “I’m up. Don’t worry. You won’t have to carry me.”

  Julian barked with laughter, like he’d surprised himself. “That’s a relief, darling.” He flushed, bright as a scream in an empty room. “Sorry.”

  West didn’t get a chance to ask what Julian was sorry for, as Julian quickly released his seat belt and left the car. Scrambling to catch up, West noticed strange furrows in the lawn as he passed, but Julian disappeared into the depths of the cottage before he could answer any questions. Following him inside, West grabbed the keys from a bowl on the hall table and locked the car remotely and then the front door behind him. Last time he’d been at the cottage, Julian’s yacht had exploded. Meta Law might have Lyle and the pack in custody, but West itched to add what little protections he could.

  He replaced the keys and lingered in the hallway, wondering what to do. Scratching his hair, West grimaced when he felt knots of blood and dirt. He needed a shower.

  Passing the closed door of Julian’s room, West’s keen ears picked out the sound of water running. Seemed like Julian had the same idea. Retreating to his own washroom, as gloriously hot water cascaded over West’s tired body, he indulged himself by imagining they might one day share a shower. Just as soon as they clarified some things between them. Like the past. And the future.

  And Rabid.

  For all he wanted to kiss Julian, West didn’t want to lose focus. He needed to know the truth.

  He didn’t want to know the truth.

  West shut off the water with more force than necessary and stepped out of the shower, dripping across the room, to dress. He roughly towel-dried his hair, trying to wake up. The early-morning sunshine spilled through the open drapes of his window, and he itched to put yesterday behind him for good. He needed to speak with Julian; though Julian had said “cards on the table” in the motel room, they’d only been using half a deck. West wanted all fifty-two cards faceup between them.

  He yanked on a pair of sweats Julian had loaned him, too long in the leg and too narrow on his ass, and a T-shirt that didn’t smell too bad. Slinging the towel around his neck, West took a breath and set his shoulders, trying to quell his nerves. He knew Professor Wylie would be patient enough to listen.

  Would Julian?

  West had to take the chance. He stole across the hallway, the cottage quiet with both of their showers off, and knocked lightly on Julian’s bedroom door.

  “Julian? Can we talk?”

  The door clicked open. West’s heart thumped in his ears, his held breath burning his throat as he slowly realized no one waited on the other side. Frowning, he pushed the door open the rest of the way. No lights were on and the drapes were closed, letting only a thin bar of sunlight through.

  “Julian? Are you there?”

  Though he could smell Julian, West didn’t spot him until a shift of movement drew his attention to the figure huddled beneath the window. At his approach Julian raised his head and rested his chin on his knees, hugging them close to his chest.

  “Hi.”

  West huffed a laugh. “Hi. Can I come over there?”

  “If you’d like.”

  Eyes adjusting to the low light, West avoided the items of clothing scattered as if Julian had flung them as far as he could. He sat carefully near Julian, wary of crowding him. Julian smelled strange, like a man on the edge of a precipice; West didn’t want to push him off, but he hadn’t entirely decided to catch him yet either. Not if Lyle had told the truth.

  They sat in silence. West counted his breaths in patterns of four, like Joe taught him when the kitchen had gotten too much in those early weeks. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four. Except he’d never been as nervous in the kitchen as he was in Julian’s bedroom. His hands had never shaken as they did while watching Julian hug himself, with fine tremors that would break yolks and chop sloppy greens.

  “What are you thinking about?” Julian asked suddenly.

  “Knives,” West answered, then realized he’d said something ridiculous when he heard Julian’s sharp intake of breath. “Furballs! I was thinking about the diner. Joe’s Diner.”

  “That makes sense, I suppose. The situation being what it is.”

  “And… and what is the situation?”

  Julian wriggled his bare toes, glancing at them like they held his answer. “We’re ending the contract, aren’t we? So you’ll go back to your diner. Your knives.” His grin flashed like fire in the dark. “Or whatever one keeps in a kitchen.”

  “You want me to go? You want me to go. Right.” West ran his fingers through his damp hair. Before Julian’s noises turned articulate, West plowed forward. If he had to leave, he wouldn’t leave words unspoken or questions unasked, though they’d be blunter than he’d prefer. “Lyle said you invented Rabid. Is that true?”

  Julian went still, like a statue of himself. His grin disappeared. “It was a mistake.”

  Anger rose like bile in West’s thr
oat. He swallowed the burning back and rolled to his feet, scrubbing his hair with the towel to dispel some of his restless energy. Opening his mouth to speak, he shut it again, not sure what to say. Rabid had destroyed people. Metas. West didn’t propose to deny individuals their choices, bad or good or otherwise, but it had been Julian who created the bad decision to choose. Without him, Rabid wouldn’t exist in the first place.

  “West?” Julian sounded very young.

  West missed his brash confidence but kept pacing. “Give me a minute.”

  “I’m just going to turn on some lights. I don’t like not being able to see you.”

  West hadn’t considered the limitations of Julian’s vision. As he paced, he caught glimpses of Julian getting to his feet and moving across the room as stiff as an old man in winter. Though he’d expected magic, Julian simply flicked on the overhead lights, then dimmed them to a warm glow. Task complete, he crossed the room to take a seat at the large desk in front of the window, leather creaking as he shifted his weight. He stared at the drapes like he wanted to set them alight.

  West still wanted to kiss him.

  “Did you do it on purpose? Make Rabid, I mean.”

  “You ever used a magelight, West?”

  “What?” Wrong-footed by the question, West frowned at the side of Julian’s head. “The magic tealight things?”

  Julian’s smile was crooked in profile. “Yes, the ‘magic tealight things.’”

  “Sure. I had one, at the cabin.”

  “I invented those, when I was at school. The portable aspect, I mean. Little magical batteries. Very clever, if I do say so myself. Drove Mother around the twist, the nights I spent sweating over the spellwork.” He drummed his fingers. “She helped me patent it with the MAA.”

  “You must be a millionaire,” West blurted.