by K. F. Breene
Chapter Twenty-Four
I lay on my side, my head propped up on my hand, nestled in the small bed beside Emery, who lay on his back next to me, taking up way more room than a normal guy should. I was against the wall, so while I wouldn’t fall out, being crushed by muscles was a real possibility.
The pillow had been discarded, since it smelled like a dead person and had suspicious brown stains splotched over the white surface, which made an already uncomfortable situation that much worse. Stacked boxes, some misshapen due to critters darting out for my feet (I couldn’t seem to zap the buggers) lined the walls in rows, leaving a small aisle.
Emery had offered to sleep on the floor, but I would not be responsible for vermin eating his face. Besides, there wasn’t enough room. I would’ve fit better, and there was no way I would opt to sleep down there.
A sliver of light cut across the floor from underneath the closed door. Another slice cut through the room from the moonlight peeking in through the single small window. It seemed the sky had finally cleared.
“Why is there a bed in the stockroom?” I asked into the hush. A moment later, the rhythmic pound of bass started up as the jukebox in the bar below began the next song.
Emery drummed his fingers on his stomach. “Whenever Joe and his wife have a big fight, Joe stays here.”
“They must be getting along.”
“They must. I didn’t know about the couch, or I would’ve thought of somewhere else for us to stay.”
“What couch?”
“He used to have a couch, too. I think at one point this was going to be a man cave or something.”
“Then where would the supplies go?”
“In the downstairs supply room the employees use. This is overflow, I think. Actually, I’m not really sure. I just know he keeps this bed in it, and he’s the only one allowed up here. It’s the safest place I could think of. Even though mages do drink at the bar, shifters outnumber them. People don’t mess with Joe very often. Not without good cause.”
“If they find out we’re here, it’ll be a good cause.”
“Which is why we’ll only stay a little while.”
My leg was falling asleep. I tried to shift, but his elbow was in the way, sticking out so he could fold his hands across his chest. “Is there anywhere else you can put your hands?”
He straightened the arm on my side. His fingers brushed my upper thigh and rested much too close to my apex. His point made, he pulled his arm back up.
“Ah.” I ignored the butterflies and maneuvered enough to curl my arm under my head. My elbow knocked his temple. “Oops, sorry.”
He pulled his head away so I could try and figure out my whole arm/pillow situation. Except if I did that, my forearm would smack his face.
“So you thought you’d take the couch, and my mother and I would fit in this bed?” I asked.
A smile spread across his face. “I hadn’t remembered how small the bed was.”
“Clearly.”
“I am a bit large.”
“Yes.”
“And your mother is larger still. In certain…areas.”
I snorted with his attempted delicacy. “At least my mother is squishy. You’re all hard planes and dull points.” I’d need to grab some clothes from my pack and use them as a pillow, since side-sleeping without one would kill my neck. My only hesitation was that I didn’t want my clean clothes to smell like this bed. It was musty and slightly dank. In other words, kind of gross.
At least the room was dry and he was warm. Silver lining.
“Luckily, you are petite,” he mumbled.
With a last-ditch effort, I scooched down and curled my arm under me again. My butt hit the wall, my feet dangled over the end, and I rammed my forehead into Emery’s elbow.
He jerked his arm away. The bed groaned miserably. “Are you okay?”
I would’ve rubbed the offending spot, but I was struggling to keep my face from pressing against the blankets.
“Penny?” I felt his hand curl under my upper arm.
“I’m good. I’m fine.” I inchwormed back up the bed, my progress eased by his tugging. Oh, who was I kidding? I was dragged up, pulling at the blanket as I went. The guy was strong, even in awkward positions.
“I’m not petite,” I said absently as I tried to decide which piece of clothing to sacrifice for my pillow. “I’m a normal-sized woman with a penchant for hunching when I’m embarrassed. Which is often, as you’ve noticed.” I blew out a breath. “The pillow issue is real.”
His big arm came away from the bed until it was sliding across my face.
“Put that back.” I shoved his arm off my forehead. “There isn’t enough room for that thing to go wandering.”
“Come in.”
“Come in where? We’re on top of the covers.”
“Use me for a pillow.”
I hesitated as a worrying hum sounded in my body again. “No, it’s fine. I’ll figure it out.”
“Suit yourself.” He dropped his arm, and his fingers resumed their restless drum on his stomach. I wasn’t sure what he was so wound up about. It was good to be the biggest guy in the room. He’d gotten the prime sleeping spot simply because there was a good chance he might shift in his sleep and literally crush me should he have to lie on his side.
“Was your brother as big as you?” I asked, dropping my head to my arm and letting my forearm rest against his face. “Or are you an unfortunate anomaly?”
Emery pulled his head away, apparently under the impression I was shifting again. My hand covered his mouth. He paused for a second, clearly still waiting, until his lips curved into a smile under my fingers. He shifted back and let my arm be, lying across his face.
I laughed and pulled back, but lost my balance and ended up rolling forward and slamming my face against his upper arm. I arched back like a sea creature caught out of water.
“What…are you doing?” he asked, trying to scoot away. There was nowhere to go.
“That settles it. I need to get some clothes for a pillow. This isn’t going to work.” I let my arm fall across his face again.
“I’m doomed to smell like this bed,” he said. “Are you sure you want to suffer the same fate? You have clean clothes; you should keep them that way until you wear them tomorrow.”
His chest stilled, and a pregnant pause ballooned between us. He wanted me to lean against him.
“Don’t try to kill yourself by asphyxiation on my account,” I said. His breath blew out, riding a chuckle.
I thought over what he’d said. At the moment, I had his spicy-sweet, masculine smell close at hand to disguise the musk of the unwashed and half-forgotten bed. Even though he was a bit dirty and travel-hardened, I delighted in his natural cologne. There was a strangely comforting quality to it. But tomorrow, wearing those soiled clothes, all I’d have was the bed’s musk, accompanied by the memory of mice, dirt, and endless layers of dust.
That wouldn’t be pleasant.
I sighed. “Fine, I’ll use you as a pillow. Though I doubt it will be any more comfortable.”
“Why is that?”
“Why do you think? You’re one big rock.”
“You get used to sleeping on rocks.” That sounded ominous.
I frowned as I scooted closer, ignoring him. Cryptic warnings were another thing I didn’t have time for. The more pressing issue was how I was going to sleep wrapped around a near-stranger.
Better than you would’ve slept curled up beside him.
I ignored myself (my list of things to ignore was drastically increasing) and grabbed his wrist and flung it, expecting him to pick up the slack. Instead, his hand thwapped loosely against my face. “Good gravy, Billie Jean, give me a break over here.”
His silent laughter shook the bed. He lifted his hand and dropped it near my head, only pulling it around me after I sidled closer to his big frame. “Do you think out your put-downs before you say them?”
I wiggled to get comfortable. “Th
at wasn’t a put-down.”
“Calling me Billie Jean, which is a woman’s name in the song, wasn’t a put-down?”
“First of all, being referred to as a woman is a compliment, not a put-down. Women can handle all the banes of existence, including being called the bane of existence, and keep on trucking. Our fragile egos don’t cause war and famine. You should be so lucky to have me call you a woman’s name—”
“There’s the fire.”
“—and second, I wasn’t calling you Billie Jean. It was part of my swear recipe. I used a song. It happens.”
“You have a swear recipe?”
“Yes. Don’t ask me for it. Get your own.”
His silent laughter shook me with the bed this time. I punched his side like I might punch a pillow to fluff it up.
He jerked and laughed harder, moving his arms to protect his (clearly ticklish) side. He squished me between his arm and body while doing so.
“Uncle,” I called out, my face smashed and words muffled. “Uncle!”
His laughter only increased as he slowly pulled his hands away, his middle flexing.
“It isn’t often the aggressor has to say uncle when they are still under attack,” I groused, scooting closer to him again.
He swished the hair away from my face and over my shoulder, sending goosebumps along my skin, before resting his hand on my arm. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. That’s impressive.”
He squeezed my arm. “I’m a little ticklish.”
“Clearly.”
Silence descended, and we lay quietly, though not restfully. The fingers of his free hand were drumming again, beating a pulse against his body. The music below pounded a deep rhythm, reverberating through the walls.
“Thank you,” he said. Each syllable dripped with sincerity.
“For what? And it better not be because I didn’t call you a woman’s name. We literally just went over that. Women can—”
“No, I meant thank you for making me laugh. It’s been a really long time.”
“Oh.” I shifted, turning more on my side, then debated what to do with my hand. If I put it out straight, it would be awfully close to his nether region. He was a guy, so he’d probably shift when I wasn’t paying attention just so I’d find myself holding his junk. But if I shifted my arm anywhere else, I’d have to rest it on him.
“Do you mind if I just…” I lightly dropped my hand to his pec. It flared, pushing at my palm. “Ah.” I jerked my hand away.
He was laughing again, making the bed plead surrender. “You can put your hand wherever you want, Turdswallop.”
I hesitated in letting my hand drop again. “You can’t call a person turdswallop. That’s a word, not a name. And I think it’s a bad one, but I can get away with using it because my mother doesn’t know what it means.”
“Your recipe must involve making up words, because turdswallop is not a word.”
“Not even in England?”
Laughter bubbled out of him until he bent from the force of it, his eyes squeezing shut. “No,” he wheezed. “Not even in England.”
“I think you’re wrong. I’ve definitely heard it before. What is so freaking funny?”
“How can you say all of this with such a serious face?” He started laughing again.
“See? This is why I hunch all the time. I’m the butt of everyone’s jokes but usually have no idea why. This is normal life.”
He shook his head, wiping an eye. “This is not normal life. This is a blessed life.” He calmed. “I mean it. I haven’t laughed very much since before my brother died. And yes, he was my size. I’m six-two and he was six-three. Neither of us were this muscular, though. We worked out, but it was different…these last few years on the run have made me tough. Strong and magically powerful. I’ve worked at it every day. The only way to stay alive is to be at the top of the food chain, no matter how many of them come for you.”
“Why since before your brother died? Were you and he fighting?”
He moved his hand until it was sliding under mine where it rested on his chest. He lifted his fingers, and I threaded mine between them. “He was high up in the guild, and like I told you and your mother, he was trying to effect change. Straighten things out. That’s why he joined them in the first place. He wanted to help shape the Mages’ Guild into an organization our parents would have been proud of. I told him he’d get himself killed, and that it couldn’t be done. But he didn’t listen. And then it came true. It wasn’t even a premonition—just logical thinking. That made it so much worse, because he would’ve believed my premonition over logic.”
“Why didn’t you lie and say that it was your premonition?”
“I don’t have them about other people. I only have them about myself. He knew that.”
“Oh.” I thought back to earlier that evening. “So the guild wouldn’t really go after me if I left?”
He turned his head until his cheek was against my forehead. “I guess I should’ve said that I only have them about myself usually. Your fate is tied with mine, but I’m honestly not sure why. My fight has nothing to do with you. Nor am I a good teacher to help you with your magic. I’m not even a good guide to the magical world. But for some reason, we’re in this together, for good or bad. My danger sensors now encompass you. I don’t know much more than that. Maybe I can just tell if you’re in danger if I’m in danger too. I’m not sure yet.”
Silence descended between us, and the throb of the music downstairs drifted into the background. My eyelids drooped and my body hummed in an aching, unsettled sort of way, but the feeling didn’t require action. Despite lying on a near-stranger and admitted criminal who was about to take me into the heart of some serious danger, I was completely content.
“I’m the only mage I know of who has pure black survival magic,” Emery said. “I’ve always assumed it was showing the world what I truly am.”
“An egomaniac?”
His huffed laugh made my eyelashes flutter. He squeezed me. “Evil.”
I tilted up my head and he glanced down. Our gazes connected in the dim light. His lips twitched, his attempt at a smile he didn’t feel, before he rubbed my arm with the hand draped around me and looked back at the ceiling. “I know it’s not true.”
But I could hear in his voice that he wasn’t being honest. He did think it was true. He thought he was evil.
My heart ached for him. What a horrible thing to go through life believing. Especially after losing everyone close to you, and being forced to leave your home and way of life. He was an outcast, more so than anyone I had ever known. He had nothing to his name except his family’s legacy and his magic. That he would think he didn’t have honor, that he was doomed to darkness, was more than I could bear.
Warmth seeped out from my middle, filling me. I tried to wiggle closer, to paste my body against his, so he had my touch for comfort. It wasn’t much, but it was all I knew to do.
“You’re not evil, Emery. Far from it. And that’s not just an opinion—I can feel it. I can feel your goodness.”
“I’m not like my brother. His survival magic was pure white. He always saw the good in everything. He wanted to build things. To create things. I was always the kid that knocked over the stack of blocks.”
“That makes you a jerk, not evil.”
He moved his hand up until he could tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Survival magic is a living creature’s essence. You felt it in Joe—his survival magic turns him into a wolf. Changes and morphs as he needs it. Non-magical humans have it too, in tiny amounts. That’s where intuition and gut feelings come in. If the magic is visible—by someone like you or me—it’ll lean toward one color or another. But while a shifter’s magic looks like a green haze, if you’re close enough, you can see that it is actually an ultra-fine and delicate weave of a great many patterns and textures, like you see in a spell. Mages, witches, vampires—every creature’s magic is the same. Except mine. It’s jet-black. Like a tea
r in the universe.”
I shrugged, because that didn’t mean anything at all. His survival magic was a color just like anyone else’s was. But I was sure someone, likely his brother, had explained that before. It hadn’t stuck then, so it wouldn’t stick now. I decided to go a different direction with my argument.
“Mine is solid too,” I said. “Solid white. Devoid of any personality whatsoever. I hate white walls, white cars—I really don’t like the color white. My survival magic is taunting me. So you see, you aren’t the only one with a grievance.”
“White is pure. The color of angels. Of innocence. It is goodness and light.”
“It’s also the color of the tunnel leading to death.” I tilted my face up to his again. This time, though, he didn’t look down to meet my eyes. His demons were haunting him. “Look at it this way. White is the absence of color. All the colors bounce off it. Nothing stays. Black absorbs all the colors. It is the culmination of color consumption. So really, I’m a blank canvas, and you are full of it. I think that fits.”
He sucked in a breath and choked on it. His body bent, bucking me off, as he coughed, pounding on his chest with his fist. Laughter fought his struggle for air.
I laughed with him, settling again with my head propped up on my hand.
“I think you have it better, quite frankly,” I said when he sat up, coughing. “I’d rather be full of color than devoid of it. Besides, black is way cooler. How many goth kids run around in white jumpsuits? None, that’s how many. You’re the bad boy. Your brother was— Oh.” Realization dawned.
I hadn’t properly taken in what he’d said moments before. But now I saw the dilemma. And the connection.
“I have the same unusual color as your brother did,” I said softly. “Was that why you stood in the middle of the street that one night? Because it made you think of your brother?”
Emery turned to me and slowly lay back down, but this time, he was on his side facing me. Shadows draped across his face and his expression was lost to the night. “Yes. It was a shock. But you’re the real shock, Penny.” He took a deep breath and leaned toward me slightly. “I’d thought my brother was the yin to my yang. We had an incredibly tight bond. We usually worked together excellently, and we’d been through hell together. But now I realize that we struggled to maintain our focus together. We fought for leadership. He often won, because he was better at it, and older, but we did fight for it. It made us topsy-turvy at times. Our magic was fire and brimstone, wild and powerful. But it lacked true balance. I see that now. I see that the struggle weakened us. Our bond made being dual-mages possible, but…” His shoulders sagged. When his next words came, they were lined with grief and sorrow. “We weren’t a natural dual-mage pair. We were too similar.”
