by Devon Monk
I waited a second after the coffee invite. Nothing more popped up. Well, except my pulse.
I texted back.
Yes, coffee. Anytime.
Her reply was immediate. Wednesday after 2:00.
Where?
Doodles
That was a little coffee shop near the Portland art museum that had started out as a food cart before it scored a tiny retail space that was rumored to be a haunted closet left over from an office remodel. There was no seating inside the shop, but outside there were a couple plastic chairs and nearby concrete planters you could sit on.
“Better hurry up.” Duncan stole my fries. “Coach has that look.”
“Which one?” I asked around the grilled chicken I shoved in my mouth.
“Could be two things.” Three of my fries were plucked off my plate. I spun my plate so the fries were closer to me and picked up the knife in my left hand, holding it between us at wrist level while I continued to fork food in my face.
“One more fry and you bleed,” I said.
He grinned. He knew I wouldn’t stab him over French fries. Well, not hard.
“What look?” Coach was staring in our general direction. He looked determined and maybe thoughtful and possibly a little exasperated.
Like he was trying to figure out how a team full of losers was still in such a good mood. Or how a team full of talented guys and girls couldn’t seem to pull a damn win when we had everything going for us.
His eyes caught mine. Lingered a little too long.
Or maybe he was just wondering if it was time to cut his losses and bring in some new players.
Maybe that disappointment was all for me.
I wasn’t hungry anymore.
I finished my Coke and pushed the fries to Duncan, who ate them without question or pause.
“He’s either trying to figure out how to punish us for our second loss of the season,” Duncan mumbled through potatoes and grease, “or he’s reworking the lineup and deciding who to permanently bench.”
“Or he’s tired of your face.”
“This face?” Duncan batted his eyelashes. “Never happen. I am too damned adorable.”
The door to the place opened up and the entire Rumblers team strolled in, singing some kind of ridiculous victory song about that’s how winning is done. Every time they said the word “done” they sort of dipped down one shoulder and pointed to the ground.
It was annoying. And a little awesome.
It also made everyone in the place smile. Because of course it did.
Their coach and assistant coach wandered over and each shook Coach Clay’s and Assistant Coach Beauchamps’s hands, then settled down next to them and started what looked like an amiable conversation.
I guessed we weren’t leaving yet.
“Yo!” Duncan stood and waved at the team, who were waiting for the hostess to take them to a table.
Several of the players looked his way and returned his grin, then waved him over amid shouts of “Donut! Get over here, you smooth groove!”
Smooth groove? Why did he get the cool nickname?
“Move.” Duncan shoved at me and I got out of the booth so the idiot could bound over to his new friends who should be rivals.
They welcomed him in and one of the wingmen threw an arm over his shoulder and brought him along with the team as they were escorted to the back room, where apparently, there was a big enough table for the whole team.
“What is he doing?” Lock stopped next to my table and scowled.
“Hanging out with some of the guys on the Rumblers?”
He narrowed his eyes, flicked his glare at the far side of the place, then back to me. “He’s your responsibility. Make sure he’s on the bus in time.”
“He’s not going to miss the bus, Lock,” I said. “He’s not stupid.”
And the look he gave me. The look.
He might not like me, might not like wizards, and okay, fine. I could deal with that. I could even respect it. But that look told me exactly what he thought about my friend. My brother.
He thought he was dumb, or irresponsible, or incapable.
Well, screw him. That was not going to stand with me.
“Duncan plays his ass off,” I said. “He is as focused and determined to win as any person on the ice. Maybe more.”
“He could do better.”
“We could all do better,” I countered.
“Yes,” he said, “you could.”
It was a challenge. We could have it out right here in the middle of the restaurant. People weren’t looking our way yet. We weren’t yelling yet. We weren’t throwing punches.
But that’s what was going to happen if I engaged.
I was a hockey player. All I knew was how to engage. Loudly.
I glanced toward Coach Clay. As if he felt my attention, his eyes ticked to me. Held a second.
There was something in that gaze. A sort of weighing curiosity. Maybe he was still trying to figure me out too. And maybe just like how Lock had judged Duncan, he was figuring me wrong.
Time I proved what I was. Time I proved it wasn’t a bad thing to have a wizard on the team.
I shoulder-checked Lock as I stormed toward the door.
“Hazard,” Lock said. “Where you going?”
“To get some air.” Because I had control. Because no matter how much my anger, and the magic in me, wanted to prove a point, the thing he needed to understand was that I was in control.
I ruled my life. Not my magic. Not my anger.
I strode out of the restaurant into the cool night and kept walking. My thoughts rolled and tangled, a mash of hockey plays, magic, a headless wizard doll, and texts from a girl I really wanted to get to know better. It was a mess, my life, but the longer I walked, breathed, and put distance between me and Captain Judgment, the better I felt.
I just needed some time to think. Some time alone. I shoved my hands into my hoodie pockets and turned down the next block. Unlike the corner where the diner sat, this part of town was rougher, dirtier. It wasn’t that things slowly got more rundown, more tagged up. It was like a line had been drawn in the road.
Light behind me, darkness ahead.
I didn’t even hear the footsteps until I had jagged through several narrow streets and one dead end. The streetlights were out here, and the neighborhood had gone from good-enough to broken-down.
How far had I walked, anyway? And who from the team had followed me?
“Look,” I said, turning around. “I just want a little time…”
Five guys were walking my way. None of them were from the Thunderheads. None of them were from the Rumblers. None of them looked friendly.
“Hey,” the taller one of the group called out. “We just want to ask you a question.”
Yeah, I bet. The only questions in their body language was “how much money are you carrying” and “how hard do we have to beat you to get it?”
Hell.
“I don’t have any cash on me. I don’t even have my wallet.” That was back at the diner in my duffel.
“Sure,” a guy with a shaved head said. “We’re just gonna have to see for ourselves. Wizard.”
Shit. Was he a sensitive? Good guesser? I couldn’t be famous enough to be recognized on the street.
They wanted money. If not that, they wanted blood.
Choices: fight, run, or use magic.
I’d gotten through every other problem in my life without using magic, I could get through this too.
The men moved like they’d done this before, cutting off my way forward. Behind me was a broken warehouse. I glanced back, and hey, a couple more men were walking our way.
I wasn’t getting out of this without a fight. Seven against one. Bad odds. I was fit, I knew how to fight, but seven to one?
I squared my shoulders and spread my stance, ready to run. Ready to fight.
Magic could be a weapon. That’s what everyone was afraid of. That magic would maim, kill.
That a wizard like me who lived and breathed violence would lose control.
“I don’t have anything you want. All I have on me is my phone.” I pulled it out of my pocket. It wasn’t a great phone. Not enough of a phone for seven guys to get all worked up about.
They closed in, casually spreading out in a circle around me. “Well, ain’t that too bad.” the first man said. This close, I could see his teeth were rotted stumps and his jeans were stained and ripped. He was not a marked.
I glanced at the others. None of them were marked. Well, maybe the bald one who had known I was a wizard.
That was good. That was an advantage. Seven unmarked was a lot different than facing down seven shifters.
“Since you don’t got nothing for us,” rotted teeth said, “we’re gonna have to make you pay another way.”
In the movies, this is the part where each guy comes forward, one at a time, does his fancy fight moves and the hero beats him down.
In real life, all seven rushed me.
I’m an athlete. I grew up with a brother who liked to shift into a wolf bigger and heavier than me and tackle me from out of the shadows. I could hold my own in a fight.
Any fight.
I ducked, punched a kneecap, pushed up and slammed another guy in the groin, ’cause no one ever expects the hits to come in low.
Two down and screaming. Five to go.
I pivoted and pushed, slipping free of the rain of fists pummeling my back: twisting, turning, fast. Out of their grabbing hands. Out of the ring of bodies.
Magic was right there. Easy as a thought. As if it were as much a part of me as oxygen and blood.
I needed time. Wanted them slow. Heavy.
I lifted a hand and that kindling behind my chest caught a dark, smoky fire.
Weights around their ankles, weights around their wrists. Heavy, heavy, heavy.
Magic rippled out across the pavement like a heat wave that distorted and sparked dull silver. And then…
…and then the men yelped and swore. They slowed from a run to a staggering stumble, arms locked low by their sides, legs stiff and unwieldy.
Just like that, I danced out of their reach. Now all I had to do was get far enough away before the magic exhausted me. I didn’t know how long I had. Maybe a couple minutes, maybe a few more.
But as soon as I cut the spell, I’d be winded, and weak. They, on the other hand, would be fine. Angry.
I could knock them out. That thought sloshed through my brain, bright like a fire burning.
But if I did it wrong, too hard, they could die. If I was too easy with it, they’d just chase me down and beat me anyway.
Crap. I had not thought this out. I should have thrown a different spell. I should have used magic better, smarter.
A low, nearby snarl went screechy haywire then dumped down into a huffing growl. Even with adrenalin and magic fire-hosing through my veins, a chill of fear swamped me.
That sound was animal. Feral. That sound was danger. That sound was death.
My attackers all froze. “Cat,” one of them said, eyes too wide, head turning to take in the doors and broken windows around us.
The sound had come from behind me. And no, I wasn’t about to turn my back on these assholes to see what kind of cat was out hunting.
All I wanted was a chance to run.
But first I had to cut the spell. Then I’d need to barf. Then, maybe then, I’d be able to run.
The cat snarled again, closer, making noise because it wanted us to know it was out to kill.
My brain was working too slowly. I knew I needed to make a decision. Cut the spell and hope the cat didn’t notice me? Didn’t notice any of us? Throw another spell? Pass out and forget the whole thing?
The men were yelling. At me. Oh. They wanted me to let them go. Let them run.
Funny. It was funny how that’s what I’d wanted from them just a minute ago.
Funny enough I laughed.
Laughed as they tried to run away from me.
But then I was out of air and needed to bend at the waist to catch my breath. Magic was pouring, burning. I was floating, up, up, up.
Something hot and furred moved up beside me, leaning against my side. From my bent position, I was staring right into a pair of familiar blue eyes.
Jaguar. Male. Pissed off.
Lock.
Ears flattened against his round head, and Lock hunched down, ready to attack.
“Hold on,” I said. “Wait.” I pushed up so I was straight again, and waved my hand like I was throwing something. “Get the fuck outta here,” I said. “He will tear you apart.”
I thought about scissors and cutting the flow of magic. I thought about water and pouring it over the fire inside of me. Anything to stop the magic.
The crack of the spell ending hit like a fist to the chest. No, a kick. A donkey kick. My bones bent with it and I couldn’t breathe.
Lock growled, an engine-deep warning pressing all up beside me, lending me his strength, while I tried to breathe.
My attackers hadn’t stayed around to see how this would work out. They were gone, walking fast because they’d probably heard that myth about a cat attacking you if you ran.
I collapsed onto my hands and knees, my head hanging. Finally, finally, got my breathing back. “You shouldn’t have followed me,” I said, rocking onto my heels.
He huffed another growl, still looking for a fight, still close to me. Protective.
At least this time there were no cameras. If Coach Clay found out I’d almost gotten mugged, and Lock had shifted and threatened non-marked, there would be hell to pay.
“This was not my best idea.” I groaned as I pushed up to my feet.
Lock made a sort of snarly-talky sound like he was calling me an idiot.
The world blackened then brightened again. Okay. I just needed to make it back to the diner. I could do this.
Lock fell into step beside me and nudged me in the right direction as I staggered down the street.
“Where did you leave your clothes?” The cold air felt good against my fevered skin. My back was hotter than the rest of me, bruises I couldn’t feel yet spreading under my skin. I couldn’t feel my feet, and a part of me was still floating, floating.
I dropped my hand and Lock put his shoulder beneath it, keeping me focused on moving forward, focused on him being there with me. He was strong, warm, alive. He was part of the ground, the earth, the world I should be tied to.
Lock must have taken a shortcut back. I felt like I blinked. Once. Twice. And then there was the neon sign of the diner. He lifted his head, sniffed, then trotted over to a trash can at the edge of an ally. His clothes were folded neatly on top of the lid.
I didn’t see any water or food. We’d need both pretty fast. Leaving Lock post-shift when he was the most vulnerable, wasn’t an option.
“My duffel’s in there. I have bars. Water. Wait for me, okay?”
He huffed at his clothes, then sat, staring at me.
Now would be a great time to read minds.
I didn’t have that magic.
“You want me to wait? Wait with you?”
He stood, stared at me, stared at his clothes stared at me.
At my hands.
Oh, yeah. That made sense. I should carry his stuff and when we got to the diner, closer to food, he’d shift back.
“Sorry, Captain. My brain isn’t good. Floating.” I gathered his clothes and followed him down the street. He paced to the side of the diner, and I placed his clothes on top of a stack of boxes there.
“Wait for me.” I walked into the heat, noise, salt, grease, to Duncan’s bag which he’d left alongside mine at the table, pulled out four heavy bars and two bottles of water. Fumbled to shove them in my pockets. Walked out as the world went watery and started slipping away.
Lock sat against the building in human form, dressed. He was hunch shouldered, his eyes red and barely open. Felidae shifters fought migraines after
a shift.
He looked like he was about to barf.
“Here.” I broke the seal on the water, slumped down next to him and pressed it to his hand. Then I opened a bar and gave that to him too.
He breathed through his mouth like he couldn’t stand the stink of the food in his hands, but then drained the water until it was gone.
I opened water for myself, drank half of it, and worked on tearing open another bar, my hands trembling and weak. The wrapper tore and I ate the bar around it fast, almost choking in my hurry.
Lock picked up a bar off the ground next to me, opened it, dropped it in my lap, and took the last bar for himself.
“Why didn’t you knock them out? With magic?” Lock’s voice was steady. He was already recovering from shift. Even his eyes looked less red.
“I’ve never… I don’t use it like that.”
“I’ve seen you use magic.”
“To save other people. I don’t…” I shook my head. I wasn’t floating anymore. And being back on the ground was such a relief, I just wanted to curl up here and sleep. “For myself? It’s not what I do.”
“They were going to beat the crap out of you, Hazard.”
“I would have gotten away. I was going to run. I’m fast.”
He stared at me for a long moment, his eyes still radiating the glow from his shift.
“You’re not that fast.”
“Why did you follow me?” I couldn’t figure out why he, of all people, had stood beside me. He didn’t like me. And unless he knew those guys were going to jump me—doubtful—there wasn’t any reason he should have followed.
“You left without your shadow.” He chewed the last of the bar, swallowed. “Without Spark,” he clarified like I didn’t know who he was talking about.
“So?”
“We’re a team, Hazard.” He sighed and rubbed his fingers over his forehead.
The door swung open and Duncan bounded out.
“Hey!” Then, after he got a look at both me and Lock on the ground, “What happened? Are you okay, Ran? Did you do something to him, because so help me, Lock, I will lay you out.”
I reached up for Duncan’s hand and he pulled me onto my feet. “He didn’t do anything. I’m fine. Just got some air.”
Duncan tipped his head, sniffing, trying to sense my lie. Probably sensing a lot of other things too. Like my fight-or-flight sweat and that Lock had just shifted.
