White Trash Warlock

by White Trash Warlock [retail]

  “Bob—Robert,” Adam said, suppressing the need to duck his head. “Come inside. You’re making a scene.”

  And Adam knew too well how much his brother hated making a scene, that his reputation meant everything to him. Adam almost seethed that Annie seemed to just be window dressing in Doctor Binder’s perfect life.

  Still, Adam’s words snapped Bobby out of it.

  He marched indoors, his feet heavy on the stairs. Adam’s mother remained on the porch, puffing away at a menthol. She had a red plastic cup of something in her other hand—it could have been iced tea or boxed wine. With Tilla either was likely before noon.

  She waited until they heard Bobby’s bedroom door close before she said, “He’s going to kill you when he figures it out.”

  “How did you know?” Adam asked, leveling his eyes to hers.

  “I know when you’re skulking, Adam Lee,” she said.

  “I didn’t have any other options,” he said.

  “Was it worth it?” she asked.

  “Not yet,” Adam admitted with a shrug. “I got a lead, but I don’t know where it goes yet.”

  His mother shook her head.

  Adam took a few steps away, into the perfect grass of Bobby’s perfect lawn.

  He felt for the thread and whispered, “Vic.”

  The thread flared to life.

  It had shocked Adam for Silver to touch it, but he’d also showed Adam how to sort it from the other feelings running through him.

  The thread called to him, like a radar blip echoing through the city or the first note of a long guitar solo.

  Heading inside, he washed his face and resisted the urge to change his shirt, but still he wet his hair and ran a squirt of gel through it, giving it what few spikes he could.

  “I’m going,” he told his mother.

  “Will you be back for supper?”

  Adam nodded.

  “Adam Lee,” his mother said. “Will you be back for supper?”

  “Yes ma’am,” he said. “I should be.”

  She dismissed him with a wave of her cigarette and muttered something about the Lord giving her strength.

  *****

  Traffic crowded the highway, but it remained too fast, so Adam took side streets and back roads. He needed time to locate Vic, to follow the thread and try to understand its meaning. It led him far from Bobby’s house, north, into a very different part of town. The houses were smaller, but they had real backyards, not a postage stamp of green. Most were clad in brown brick, not heavy siding. Low chain link fences separated them.

  Adam reeled in the line. Each tug brought pain, a flare in his chest, and soreness. He’d lain too long in a bed, wanted to move more, but each shift hurt his stitches.

  Despite the complaints, a warmth passed to Adam as well, comfort at being in his old room, his old bed. A sense of being loved wrapped him like a thick blanket. More than anything else, that feeling was alien.

  The impressions grew stronger until Adam could almost see the other man.

  He nibbled his lip, uncertain what Silver was playing at. The elf had pointed out the connection, but the spirit hadn’t attacked Vic. He wasn’t involved in what was happening to Annie. Something else was in play. Adam looked over his shoulder, extended his senses. He could almost sense eyes watching him, something spying, but saw nothing with his Sight.

  Adam turned onto a side street with old trees, weathered wooden trim, and faded paint.

  A lot of cars were parked on the street, though only a sleek SUV sat in the narrow driveway of his destination. Adam found a space big enough for the Cutlass, parked, and checked himself in the rearview mirror. Lifting his shirt partly over his head, he used the inside to muss his dried hair, breaking up the spikes, and immediately wished he’d kept them.

  Adam checked the house with his Sight and flinched.

  Seven Reapers stood on the front lawn. Arranged in a circle, they neither scythed nor bent but stood unmoving, with the cold wind of the otherworld ruffling their inky robes. They didn’t seem to present a threat. They didn’t seem to notice Adam at all.

  “What do you want with him?” he asked the nearest Reaper, but he received no response.

  Were they waiting for the line to snap, for Adam to let Vic go so he could die?

  With a shudder, Adam shook his head to shut down his Sight and approached the house.

  An old storm door, the kind with a scalloped pattern cut into the metal, let light into the house.

  A massive pit bull ran for the screen, leaping and barking before Adam could ring the bell.

  Adam jumped back with a yelp. He almost shrieked, and clamped his mouth shut when a voice, gruff and male, called out in Spanish. A large man, Mexican and shirtless, came around the corner. Tattoos sleeved his bulging arms, complex floral patterns and words in a font that made it hard to read them. His chest, equally developed, had a trail of black hair Adam tried not to follow to his jeans.

  “Chaos!” the man called, switching to English. “Bad girl!”

  Heart still in his throat, Adam forced a smile and double-checked the thread. This was the right house.

  “Yeah?” the man barked, sounding as ferocious as the dog. “You selling something?”

  “Is, uh, Vic here?”

  “Who wants to know?” the man asked, eyes narrowing to slits.

  “I’m here to see Vic. I’m Adam,” he said. “Adam Binder.”

  The man paused long enough that Adam thought he might need to leave.

  “You’re the white boy,” the man said, brown eyes widening. “The one who saved him.”

  “Uhhh . . .” Adam stuttered. He didn’t know what to say to that. A little curl of excitement tickled his throat but he wondered how much Vic had told his . . . brother. This was Vic’s brother, the one he’d mentioned at the hospital.

  Jesse.

  Jesse unlatched the storm door with one hand. The other gripped the dog’s collar.

  “Don’t be scared. She’s a baby,” he said, pushing the door open. “Come on. Lock the door behind you.”

  Adam did as he was told. Jesse, still clutching Chaos’s collar, marched her back into the little house. Adam followed past a kitchen painted in greens and yellows. The large dining room table shone with fresh polish, the same lemon oil Aunt Sue used. The familiar smell pulled a little tension from Adam’s shoulders.

  So many pictures crowded the walls that Adam almost couldn’t see the rich purple paint behind them. The tan faces smiled, indicating a familial ease Adam couldn’t fathom. There weren’t that many Binders in the whole world. His mother had never been big on photographs. After their dad had vanished, she’d put away the few group shots they’d had, erasing him from their lives. Seeing Vic’s family, the idea of being part of something like it, put a hitch in Adam’s throat.

  Then he spotted Vic.

  Teenage Vic stunned. He had black hair, always short, so dark and glossy it shone almost blue, the color Aunt Sue called sloe. The Vic in the photos aged until his graduation from the police academy. He remained gorgeous, but he’d added a bit of edge, a toughness that made Adam’s heart do a little flip. He realized he didn’t know the other man’s age. Twenty-four, their connection said without prompting.

  “Mom was so proud,” Jesse said, noting that Adam had paused.

  Adam swallowed hard. He flushed to have been caught staring.

  He nodded to a picture of Vic flanked by two older people sharing his complexion and features. He wore his uniform and white gloves.

  All of them beamed. Adam found himself smiling back at their glossy faces.

  “Come on,” Jesse said, waving for Adam to follow.

  They walked down a little hall.

  “Jesse!” a woman called, her Spanish accent heavier than her sons’. “Put a shirt on.”

 
“Mama,” he said, becoming bashful. “Vic’s friend is here.”

  “Friend?” the woman from the photo asked, coming around a corner. Her eyes, the same deep brown as Vic’s, widened when she saw Adam. “Oh. The white boy who saved him.”

  Adam blanched. “I just, uh, wanted to see if he was okay.”

  “He’s better than expected,” the woman said. “He was in a coma, but he woke up.”

  Yeah, me too, Adam thought. He suspected Vic’s state had been a result of the connection between them, not the gunshot.

  “This way,” she said. Looking Adam over, she poked his belly. She wore jeans and a teal tee embroidered with a white, scrolling detail. “You’re so skinny. Doesn’t your mother feed you?”

  Adam felt the blush run through him. “Uh—”

  “You should stay for dinner,” she said. “We’re ordering Chinese.”

  “Uh—”

  “What?” Jesse asked. “You think it’s all tacos and piñatas around here?”

  “Jesse,” his mother chided. “He’s here to see Vic. Take Chaos outside. And put a shirt on.”

  She gave Adam a little shove through a bedroom door and closed it behind him.

  Vic lay on a narrow bed, his eyes closed, his breathing steady but a little ragged. Bandages covered most of a bare chest, leaner than his older brother’s. Adam’s shoulders sank to see gray dulling Vic’s golden skin.

  Uncomfortable, he examined the room. About half the size of where Adam slept in Bobby’s basement, it had a worn, well-loved feel. Thick paint slathered the walls, smoothing their texture. The baseboards were probably real wood somewhere under all those coats of white. A framed poster from Return of the Jedi hung over the bed. A bookshelf in the corner overflowed. Adam could feel the concern from Jesse, the confident love of Vic’s mother. All he’d ever felt from Bobby and his mother were guilt and an aching concern, like Adam may not survive the world.

  “Wondered when you’d get here,” Vic said, voice creaky, his eyes still closed.

  “Came as soon as I could,” Adam said.

  “I know.”

  Adam didn’t like that their connection went both ways. The line between them, the thread, made him, made both of them, vulnerable.

  “I—I came to see if you’re okay,” he said.

  “I think I’ve been shot,” Vic said, opening his eyes.

  “Funny.”

  Vic looked like he wanted to shrug but thought better of it. “Come over here.”

  The words pulled somewhere beneath Adam’s belly. He wanted to narrow the distance, to remove it completely. He resisted and felt a little tickle of pink confusion and gray disappointment from Vic.

  “Okay then,” Vic said. “I’ll come to you.”

  Adam felt the pain, the pull of stitches as Vic forced himself to sit up.

  “Stop,” Adam said, moving forward. He didn’t want to sit on the edge of the mattress, to intrude or be so near, but there wasn’t anywhere else. Adam eased himself down, perching gently, aware of how that barest movement hurt the other man. This was his fault. All of this was his fault.

  “It’s that bad?” Adam asked. “The pain?”

  “Doesn’t have to be, but I’m trying to keep off the meds,” Vic said. “Don’t want to need ’em too much.”

  “How’s that going?” Adam asked.

  “Not—well,” Vic rasped.

  “Can I get you some water or something?” Adam asked.

  “Just be here,” Vic said, closing his eyes again.

  His pain passed to Adam and brought with it the leaden weariness of healing, the blue drowsiness of the medication, and beneath all that, a curiosity, an anticipation trained on Adam.

  “I feel stronger with you here,” Vic said. “You want to explain that to me?”

  Adam contemplated lying. But Vic would know, and everything he’d seen and felt in this house—Vic just might not think him crazy.

  “It’s magic,” he said.

  Vic squeezed his eyes shut. He exhaled, then nodded. Adam felt his acceptance, that he believed Adam’s simple, ridiculous-sounding explanation.

  “It’s weird,” he said. “Having you in my head.”

  “Same,” Adam admitted.

  They sat there, neither speaking, neither needing to, for a good while.

  “It’s only been a few days,” Adam finally said. “Should you be out of the hospital?”

  “I’m healing quickly,” Vic said. “Just gotta be careful with the stitches. Is that the magic too?”

  “Yeah,” Adam said. He put a hand to his own chest. He could feel the ache, the bullet wound.

  The pull did not subside. Adam could have stretched out beside Vic, gone straight to sleep. He did not know if it was from having pushed the magic into Vic or just the long spirit walk to the North Watchtower, but he felt bone weary. For both of them.

  “Sorry I’m not great company,” Vic said after a bit, eyes flicking across himself and the room. “Not a lot to work with here.”

  “It’s all right,” Adam said. “You’ve got a good excuse.”

  Vic turned his hand over, palm up, offering it to Adam.

  Adam cocked his head.

  “What?” Vic asked. “Too fast? I know you like me.”

  “What is this, high school?” Adam asked. “I do not like you.”

  “Yeah, you do,” Vic said with a hard tug on the line between them. “And I heard you, what you said, there in that room.”

  Adam flushed.

  Maybe it’s the uniform. Maybe I think he’s hot.

  Adam should have known his cockiness would come back to bite him on the ass.

  “What else do you remember?”

  Vic’s eyes flicked to his waiting hand. A smirk played at his lips.

  “Fine,” Adam said.

  Vic’s grip felt weak, too weak, his palm too warm. Adam moved a little strength through the thread between them and felt himself sway, like he’d lost a lot of blood.

  “Thanks for coming,” Vic said with a sigh.

  Adam did not know if Vic could feel what Adam was doing or not. Sensitivity to Adam likely didn’t bring sensitivity to magic.

  “Something cold, but hungry,” Vic said quietly. “Worse than ice, worse than winter, like a frozen sea that wanted to swallow me, but you wouldn’t let it.”

  Adam went cold.

  “Then I felt you,” Vic said. “Between me and it. I felt you save me.”

  “You told your family that?” Adam asked. “Your mother and brother?”

  “Yeah. I tell them everything and they tell everyone else. Jesse’s the worst.”

  Adam wasn’t sure how to take the idea that Vic’s family might know about him, about the magic. Bobby wasn’t the only one who might commit him. And yet, Vic didn’t seem worried. He seemed to feel they’d believe him.

  “You close to your family?” Vic asked, pulling Adam back before his thoughts drifted to Liberty House.

  “Not really,” Adam said, shrugging, trying to imagine how he’d explain himself, his past, to Vic.

  “Are they like you?” Vic asked. “Magic?”

  “No,” Adam said. “My Aunt Sue is. Kind of. But my mother and brother aren’t like me at all.”

  Vic’s brow wrinkled, no doubt he felt the mix of things Adam felt when he thought of Tilla and Bobby.

  “My family is complicated,” Adam said.

  “Why?” Vic asked.

  “Because I’m complicated.”

  “Getting that,” Vic said. His eyes closed. They were slow to reopen.

  “You need to sleep,” Adam said.

  “Yeah,” Vic agreed. “Meds kicking in.”

  “I’ll go,” Adam said.

  Vic gave Adam’s hand a squeeze. “Thank you. For coming, for what you did.”


  Adam watched Vic settle into sleep. He waited for the intensity of the conversation to ebb. It didn’t.

  He’d thought about Vic a lot, especially in the hospital, but this sort of instant connection—what had he done? And why had it pissed Silver off?

  Vic let out a little snore. A bit of drool beaded his lip.

  Adam stood, careful not to wake Vic.

  I’d do it again. Save him again.

  Leaning in, he left a quick kiss on Vic’s forehead. The contact felt electric.

  It lingered as he took quiet steps to the hallway. The feeling was so different than kissing Perak. The elf had felt cool and soothing,

  Vic’s mother waited in the hall.

  “You saved his life,” she said, no question.

  “I—” Adam stuttered. “How much did he tell you?”

  Mrs. Martinez, Maria , shook her head, leading him back toward the living room. Adam ignored her silent invitation and kept moving toward the front door.

  “He said you saved his life, that you risked your own for his”—she paused, fumbling for words—“I thought it was the drugs at first. Then they let him come home early, days ahead of time.”

  Adam still did not know how much Vic understood. He had to explain, just as soon as he understood it himself.

  “Then there’s the roses,” she said.

  “The roses?” Adam asked.

  She gestured for him to follow her outside.

  “It started as soon as we brought him home,” Maria said.

  The backyard held several bushes. They drooped with blooms, flourishing in the Indian summer. The smell was intoxicating, and the late bees seemed to think so too. Some of the trailer lots back home had little gardens, a bush or two. Their colors never failed to make Adam smile. But these, these were black, jet and glossy, sloe, like Vic’s hair.

  Adam shifted his Sight. Another six Reapers stood on this side of the house, completing the circle. Thirteen total, watching, waiting.

  They issued no challenge, didn’t draw their scythes or offer a threat.

  Still, Adam didn’t stay for Chinese food.

  18