by Robin Moray
"Then it seems obvious," Artemis said, dusting his palms on his slacks. "Let's go visit Nanna."
* * *
Nanna Abigail's cottage was set at a distance from the highway, behind a hill and a screen of trees to deflect unwanted attention. There were also the heavy go-away wards dotted about the property, designed to keep hikers and children away. Kevin always felt a little ill passing through them, feeling the icy shudder of 'no, don't' skittering down his spine. Today it was worse than usual, and he wondered how much that had to do with how skewed his magic was right now, and whether the wards might not recognise him as family anymore.
Bella, though, they welcomed, and she must have tweaked them a little because the discomfort eased as they bumped along the dirt driveway and came up to the cottage gate. By the time they were inside, Kevin hardly felt sick at all, just weak and miserable and riddled with guilt.
The cottage seemed to most people perfectly normal, if incredibly quaint. The garden was messy but not overgrown, weeds carefully pulled up and added to the compost. The paint around the windows was faded but not peeling, the inside walls whitewashed, the windowsills dust-free. It was cluttered but clean, with kindling in a box beside the stove, and dried flowers in a vase on the kitchen table.
Which only seemed strange when you realized that no-one actually lived here.
Kevin was used to it, though, and just sunk onto the floral sofa in the parlour, cradling his head in his hands, while Artemis fussed about lighting lamps and candles. What a mess he'd made of everything.
Something clunked. He looked up; a familiar tin with the kittens on the lid had set itself down on the doily-covered end-table next to the sofa, and now, as he watched, the lid levered up to expose a selection of cookies, mostly running to dried fruit and oats.
It made his heart hurt. "Thanks, Nanna."
It wasn't really Nanna Abigail. It wasn't really anyone. Artemis suspected it was some kind of psychic imprint, the left-over presence of a strong magical will that made the house continue to function as it had when Nanna Abigail lived in it out of habit. Kevin suspected it was less habit and more some kind of terrified obedience, but in any case, it was comforting. More comforting than Nanna Abigail herself, who had a tendency to make Kevin feel very small and very grubby and entirely too loud.
But if she'd been there she would have fed him oatmeal cookies and tea, and scolded him for being reckless, and probably lectured him about going off with strange men in the first place. So, all things considered, it was just as well she'd moved to the coast when Kevin turned eighteen, leaving the three of them to their own devices.
He ate his biscuit, curled up around a lavender-embroidered cushion, and tried not to think too much.
He had no idea how long he sat there but eventually Bella set a cup down on the table, and pulled a cushion down to the floor, kneeling on it. "That's for you," she said, nodding at the cup—chamomile tea by the smell of it. He could feel her concern pricking over his skin, and he hated it.
"Don't say it, I already know." He pressed the heels of his hands over his eyes, wishing it would all just go away. "You told me and I was an idiot and it's all my fault. See? Don't have to tell me again."
Bella sighed, and then he felt the weight of her hand on his head, her fingers gentle on his scalp. "Isn't it my fault, really?" Her voice turned down low and sad. "Like you said, you could have been normal."
"You didn't do it on purpose," Kevin argued, glaring up at her, because what the hell? "You were two years old! How could anyone have stopped it?"
"If they'd separated us—" she said but his horror must have been obvious because she broke off, biting her lip.
"No way! I'd rather … even if I can't be normal, you're my sister."
She smiled a bit, and patted his leg. "And Artie?"
"I'd trade Artie for a german shepherd, no question," Kevin lied brazenly; she thumped him in the knee.
"I'm sure he feels the same way." She prodded him in the knee. "Drink your tea, cheeky."
The tea wasn't very comforting, or rather it was a bit comforting but Kevin needed more than that, miserable as he was. Tea wasn't enough. He needed sweatpants and a tub of ice-cream and Lilo and Stitch. All he had instead was chamomile tea and his sister's puppy-dog-eyes. So that was going to have to do.
Eventually Artemis bustled in, looking resolute. "I have a plan," he announced, dropping onto the end of the sofa and landing heavily on one of Kevin's feet. "Tomorrow, we'll try your location spell again, Bells, and then we'll go looking for our warlock. Or our witch guest. If we find the witch, we'll have a chat with him, explain we don't mean him any harm, and maybe bring him home with us. In any case, we can use him as bait."
Bella made a disgusted noise. "Don't be horrible."
"Oh, that's horrible, but it's okay when I'm the bait?" Kevin complained.
"Yes, but you knew you were bait," she sighed, rubbing his leg comfortingly. "Anyway, Artie, what if we find the warlock instead?"
"Then, I have this." He held up a locket. It was small and ugly, a cheap silver thing with jonquils on it, and Kevin could feel his face twist up in disbelief.
"Did you get that off Etsy?"
Artemis ignored him. "There's a mirror inside," he said, opening it up to show them. Bella nodded but Kevin groaned.
"You want to trap her in a mirror?"
"It's more humane than a vase," Artemis argued, snapping the thing shut and glaring at him.
"It's a fucking cliche, is what it is," Kevin muttered. Still, magic liked cliches, always prefered it when the story followed the same old lines. "Fine. Fine, so … it's the same as with the fire-elemental, then?" He gestured in vague arcs with one hand. "Circle around the warlock, catch her reflection, whoosh, snap, you're done?"
Artemis frowned at him, mouth twisting up in irritation. "There's a bit more to it than 'whoosh, snap'."
"Not for me," Kevin said, because it was only the truth. All he had to do was be there, to share the load, to augment the two of them. That's how it worked. He'd tried to graph it once, but it was too hard without an actual way of measuring magic, but the way it felt was exponential; alone, Kevin wasn't anything, but linking with Artemis jumped their combined capacity up to something far greater than just Artemis' capacity plus his own. And adding Bella in sent it sky-rocketing. No-one was really sure why a fourth didn't have the same effect, though Kevin suspected it had something to do with the difficulty balancing three different egos, but then again what did he know? In any case, when they were linked he left the actual spell-casting to his siblings. It was just easier that way.
"You should still pay attention," Artemis insisted, and he went over the theory of it, the structure and composition, on and on.
It should have been interesting, but Kevin found himself drifting, attention gravitating back, endlessly, to Peter. He'd still be angry, Kevin figured, might always be angry, might never forgive him. The thought made him despair, and he curled miserably up on the end of the sofa, leaning his head on the arm. Bella stroked his hair, but the prickle of her magic was irritating, and that only served to make Kevin more miserable.
Eventually, when the other two had worked out their spell-crafting, Bella leaned down to kiss Kevin on the head. "I need you to do something for me, little brother."
"I'm not five," he grumbled, "you don't need to patronise me."
She didn't say anything to that, just looked sad. "Try to link with Artie."
Kevin groaned and covered his eyes. "This again." But he hesitated, because he remembered how hard his magic had shifted, how Peter had just pulled it all into alignment—or out of alignment, depending on how you looked at it. And he remembered how hard it had been last time.
Artemis held out his hand but Kevin just glared at it, reaching out with his magic instead to tangle together with his brother's; it hurt almost, a stinging feeling like pins and needles. Kevin grit his teeth and forced it, gripping firmly as he could. The link caught, held, stabilized, bu
t it made Kevin feel ill to hold on to it, his magic writhing to get away.
Artemis grimaced, and he looked almost upset, but he gripped back just as tightly. "There. Done. Bella?"
She sighed, wrapping them both up in magic, and immediately Kevin felt his own being pushed back into shape, and it felt so wrong. "No, don't. Just link with me, all right?"
She pulled back, startled, but then she made the connection and it … it wasn't right, but it worked. That was a relief.
Kevin let go, pulling a face. "There we go. Happy now?"
They were doing it again, exchanging looks between the two of them as if they were telepathic. "I think it would be best," Artemis said slowly, "if you slept in with Bella, tonight. If you're close to her, you'll probably be back to normal by morning."
Kevin pulled a face. "Yeah, okay, no." Sharing a bed with his sister at his age was too weird to contemplate.
"On the floor, Kevin," Artemis said as if reading his mind. "We'll pull the spare mattress in."
Well, that was better at least. "Fine. I guess. Just … I'm going to heat up some water for a bath, all right?"
The both looked so worried, but honestly, what else was there to do?
Chapter 12
When Peter made it back to his room he stood stock still in the middle of it for a full five minutes, feeling humiliated and furious and deeply, deeply hurt. Betrayed. Kevin had deceived him, had played up to him the whole time, and it had been all been a lie.
Eventually, he kicked off his shoes and sat down on the end of a bed, leaning his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands because … mercy, it had felt so real. Kevin's shy smiles, his humour, the honesty in his eyes—Peter had believed all of it. What a fool I have been.
And, if he was honest, what a fool he continued to be because he still felt everything.
He groaned, scrubbing his hands through his hair, and then grimaced because they were tacky. Well. Of course they were. And now it was in his hair. And—oh God. The memory of Kevin in his hand, of Kevin's hand on him, of the warm welcoming haven of Kevin's mouth (and how he had longed, shamefully, for that mouth on him below) flashed into his mind, and he shuddered because … he had wanted it, so very much.
In three years he had trusted exactly one person, and to have trusted again and have that trust so brutally thrown in his face was awful.
He stripped, showered, washing away the physical proof of his own stupidity, but he could not forget it. He pulled on an undershirt and the bottom half of a tracksuit, and then he drew the case of hunter tools out from under the bed, opening it up to look over the contents. Knives, a machete, a small needle-like set of cuffs designed to fit over the fingers and to be dipped in the phylactery of poisons strapped away in a box to one side. An array of charms, some to wear, some to wield, and a number of instruments of detection, a short sword that he resolutely did not look at because, well, Miranda. But he put them all way again, because …
He would use none of it on Kevin. The thought held up under consideration; he would not, though he thought a true hunter, one dedicated to his duty, would do it. But … Kevin.
He had been so adamant that witches were not by their nature evil, and that should have been indication enough that Peter ought to have suspected him, but he had not. And now? It was too late.
But Kevin had done nothing very wrong to him, even if—no, Kevin had insisted he had cast no will-turning magic on him, had looked so very upset at the very suggestion. Kevin had not hurt him, not with magic. Peter wondered if Kevin would never have hurt him, and thrust the thought ruthlessly aside because he could not dwell on it now, could barely find room in himself to consider anything more than what was already before him.
But Kevin … how lovely he was, how kind, how earnest, and how Peter had wanted and still wanted. And how delicious his essence, his damned magic, how sweet. How much Peter had wanted to drink from him, had drunk of him, how much of him Peter felt still in his veins, his sinews, down to his bones. He could smell it, the ripe heady scent of Kevin rising from his own skin like smoke.
Ah, what to do, what to do? He thought, I should cut him off again, leave him alone, be gone from him. But he did not want that, wanted only to find Kevin and, honestly, kiss him again, feel the wonder of his magic again, be only near to him again. How he has enchanted me. But. It was not an enchantment. It felt absolutely nothing like it had when Ian—foul and corrupt as he had been, the worst of men, a blight on them all—had ensorcelled him. Kevin was different. Kevin was the polar opposite. And Peter did not know what to do with the knowledge of this, had no idea how to proceed because …
He did not love him. No, this was not true; Peter loved him. And, if he dared admit that to himself, then he must admit how terribly had he hurt Kevin. He could not deny it. If he thought only of Kevin as a lover then it became obvious. He loved Kevin. He had hurt Kevin. He wanted Kevin and would walk through fire and frost to have him back. To possess him and to be possessed by him, in return.
He lay down on the bed, curling his arms about his head. What did it mean for a hunter to love a witch? Was it a betrayal of himself? Or was it an admittance of his own faults, his own frailties?
He considered it, face buried in a pillow, breathing hot and hard through the denseness of cloth and stuffing. What was, in all honesty, the barrier here? Fear? Was it so small as that?
He did not fear Kevin. All the opportunities Kevin had had to ruin him. He'd let Kevin in, had lowered his barriers and Kevin had done nothing to harm him when Kevin had been given every reason to fear him.
And how had Peter repaid him? He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut against the memory of the words he had flung like stones, how Kevin had flinched from them.
Fool, fool forever. Lord help me, the greatest of fools.
What could he do? Nothing. If he could find Kevin and apologise, then perhaps. But he could not go to him, not now, even though he felt it, in his breast, a cord strung between they two, one end lodged in his heart and the other, he thought, lodged in Kevin's breast. He was out there, somewhere, in exactly this direction. Peter could feel it, knew that Kevin was that way, over there, at a distance. He wanted to go, be near him, simply near to him.
How could I so easily fall in love with a witch? How could I want him so much? How, how, how …
But he did and he was, and Kevin was too far from him, and all Peter wanted was the touch of his skin, the warmth of his breath, the savoury sweetness of his essence—his magic! for the love of God—to wrap his arms around and hold him.
He could not sleep, lay awake instead, remembering again: Kevin's hand on his hand; Kevin's mouth on his mouth; Kevin's smile; Kevin's shoulders; Kevin's eyes like green leaves in sunlight.
He lay awake, wishing, and hating himself for how much he wished, and how much he had broken every thing he could have had if only he were brave enough to face it.
* * *
Bella took the bath after him, Artemis declining with a sniff and an arched eyebrow. By the time his sister was out and dried, Kevin had already curled up on the spare mattress on the floor of Nanna Abigail's bedroom, and he pulled the covers over his head when she came in.
He heard her sigh. "Oh, petal. You poor limp thing."
"I'm not limp," he snapped, snuggling down under the quilt.
"You're very low, though."
He heard the shuffle of cloth, and then she had climbed into Nanna's bed, turning down the lamp and leaning over the side to tug at the quilt covering his head. He ignored it, curling around his pillow and trying not to dwell. Though. That's precisely what he was doing, dwelling. Never had he ever dwelled so hard—no, that wasn't true. He'd dwelled a lot when he was fifteen, but didn't everybody?
But it was just … okay, so it was the magic. Kevin was resigned to that, honestly, had for years known that he would 'one day' meet someone who matched him, exactly, who would be pulled into his orbit as smoothly as he would be pulled into theirs. Like a binary star system, circling o
ne another, balanced. But 'one day' was supposed to be a long way off and anyway, this couldn't be that, it just couldn't. If it was it was too cruel.
And unfair on Peter, too. Undo what you did to me, he'd said. And maybe, maybe Kevin really had done something to him, really had forced this on him, without knowing it. How awful. Jesus, that was just wrong.
"I can hear you angsting," Bella said, wry in the dark.
"No you can't."
"Your breathing keeps hitching and starting. And you make these whimpering noises, like a sad puppy."
"I don't."
"You do." She patted him gently. "Hey. It'll be okay."
"It won't."
"You're just feeling negative right now—"
"No, I mean it." He took a breath, because, well, how could it? "Even if Artie gets his warlock-pendant, even if we save the other witch, even if we do it all before Peter finds us, or them, then … even if Peter doesn't come after me. I mean, if he just leaves. Then he'll have left."
Bella was quiet for a moment, but then—"That might be for the best."
Kevin winced, and said nothing.
"But you'll be all right. You'll be fine." She stroked the quilt, sounding sad and regretful and all sorts of big-sister things. "You'll get over it."
"I might not," Kevin told her, feeling wretched and hating to admit it.
Again she hesitated, but this time—"No, you might not." She sighed, shifting about, and when he peered up through the gloom she'd propped her chin on her forearms, leaning on the edge of the bed. "So how was it?"
"How was what?"
She snorted. "I know what you were doing on the back-room couch, mister, don't pretend I don't."
"You want me to give you details?"
"God, no," and he could hear the smile in her voice. "Just a broad outline."
"Ugh …" Kevin rolled onto his back, clutching the quilt to his chin. "It was … really, really good."
