Magic for Lee (sweet gay romance)

by Hollis Shiloh

  "I'm far too old anyway," said Peter, turning back to his spell and wondering miserably if he would ever get Joel off this subject. It was painful enough without having to talk about it!

  But Joel had all the tact of a racehorse. He just kept going. "What? Too old?" squawked Joel, making the chair creak. "No, that's too much, Unc! You're only thirty-eight."

  "And fussy, and set in my ways, and almost completely gray." He stabbed at a dried bay leaf and then cut off a tiny corner to add to the mixture. He would make this properly, he would. It was for Lee, and this was one thing he could do for him.

  "You're not that fussy. And he's thirty-three."

  For a moment, Peter stood quite still. Five years younger. Was it really that little? He'd always thought Lee was much younger than that. He didn't put it past Joel to know a near-stranger's age, though.

  "Everybody in our family goes gray early, you know that. Why, look, Unc. It's… see… I've already got at least five gray hairs—and I haven't even searched elsewhere yet!"

  Peter cast him a narrow-eyed look. The boy was getting far too incorrigible. Still, it was his parents' job to rein him in. Peter actually admired how carefree Joel was, even when it scandalized him. It was just a lot less enjoyable when he was being made to squirm under Joel's remarks.

  "Anyway, I think he likes you, too. He comes here an awful lot, doesn't he? I mean, how much can he really need magic done for?"

  "His flour and sugar, for one," said Peter before he could stop himself.

  The chair scraped back with a painful-sounding groan of protest, and Joel leaped to his feet with a triumphant yelp. "Hah! I bet he got them without magic on purp—"

  "No!" Peter turned to frown at him. "He can't afford the right ones."

  They looked at one another. Slowly, the triumphant light died from Joel's face. Peter's face felt tight, flayed and raw, and he was certain some of the agony and longing in his heart showed, far more than he wanted to.

  Any would be too much.

  "I-I'm sorry, Unc." Joel moved forward and clapped a hand onto Peter's shoulder, looking him straight in the eye, for a moment being a grown man instead of a childish, overgrown boy. "I won't tease anymore. I do think you and he might have a chance if you'd be willing to take a risk—but I won't tease."

  He moved back and clapped his hands together, then rubbed them in apparent glee. "Now! Let's see about straightening up this mess. Quite a challenge for me this week. Hey, time me. I'll bet I can beat my old record!" He turned away and started de-cluttering the magic shop: first flicking dust away with faint finger motions, then sorting shelves into order.

  Peter glanced at the clock on the desk, then the one on the wall—then the third one above the mantelpiece. None of the times matched. He sighed. "I'm afraid they've gone out of order again. You'll have to time yourself."

  He began very carefully and slowly to grind the spell ingredients again, trying to clear his mind and calm his breathing. He wouldn't let Lee's words torment him with hope. He couldn't afford hope.

  "You and your magic!" Joel tutted, shaking his hand. "Very well, I'll fix them, too!"

  "Thank you." He went back to work, then looked around, blinking. "Where's the parsley? I had it a moment ago."

  "You must be out," said Joel helpfully. "You'll have to let that rest now and get some tomorrow."

  Peter gave him a stern look, but Joel's face was utter innocence, and he could have no reason to take the ingredients his uncle was using. He'd never been a thief, even as a small boy; hadn't stolen as much as a stick of candy, despite other lads his age mocking him.

  Peter's gaze softened. He remembered the shy little red-haired boy, all awkward limbs and too-large eyes behind his glasses. Who would believe he could blossom into this confident, laughing man? He was proud to be related to Joel.

  "Beauty sleep calls, Unc." Joel gave him an affectionate look, the faintest of smiles twitching his mouth.

  Peter rolled his eyes and gave in. "Very well. Don't forget to lock up." He took off his apron, draped it over a chair, and wandered away. He'd lost one of his shoes somewhere. He snapped his fingers, and it came sliding after him. He took the other one off and wandered upstairs in his stocking feet, carrying both shoes with him, whistling a little tune under his breath.

  The world was a pleasant place sometimes. There was family, work, magic—and tomorrow, another visit from Lee.

  It was not such a bad life, no.

  #

  The shop was sparkling and pristine the next day, straightened by Joel's precise magic and organizing skills. He'd first begun doing this for pocket change when he was fifteen, and kept doing it now for free, his "family obligation" as he called it, giving Peter a self-mocking smile.

  All Peter's clients exclaimed over how clean and neat the shop looked, and said it was good the boy was back in town. "Always such a nice boy," said Mrs. King, shuffling forward, stooped and leaning on her cane, smiling up at him from her wrinkled face. He handed her a lavender-and-magic sachet for under her pillow, to help her sleep. She came once a month for the potion for her chronic pain, but the sachets lasted longer; she hadn't needed one since last December.

  "I do appreciate his help," admitted Peter, smiling at her. "I've grown so used to it, the spiders would take over the shop without him, I'm afraid."

  "Thanks, Unc!" cried Joel, breezing in, footsteps clattering on the wooden floor. What ridiculous footwear was he wearing today? It looked like wooden shoes. Could that possibly be one of his latest fashions? He also had his red hair swept up into an improbable design, and wore a purple waistcoat. Really, the boy was ridiculous. At twenty-two, he ought to have a better sense of dress.

  "Like my coat?" he asked, doing a twirl for Mrs. King.

  "Oh, very colorful!" Her eyes danced. "Why, you make me wish I was young again!"

  "I wish you were too!" He moved forward and bowed over one of her gnarled hands, giving it a quick kiss. "We could go dancing!" He turned to Peter. "Oh, that shop down the street—whatever it's called—they sent you some cinnamon rolls. The proprietor—oh dear, I keep forgetting—"

  "Lee." Peter ground the word out, eyes narrowing.

  "Yes, that!" Joel's smile sparkled at him innocently. "He said it was quite busy today and he was dreadfully sorry to miss breakfast with you. He spoke as if it was a regular thing."

  "Well, it's not." Peter turned away, but his heart lightened. He'd opened the shop early, more than halfway hoping Lee would show up. But he hadn't been surprised when he hadn't, and he'd told himself he wasn't disappointed, either.

  Joel put a brown paper sack on the counter. "And would you believe he's actually thirty-five? I was wrong about his age! Why, that's…thirteen years older than I am! Ancient. Mrs. King, will you join us for coffee and a cinnamon roll? There's plenty." He turned to Peter. "He's very generous, your Lee!"

  "He not my—"

  "Oh, thank you, sonny, but I can't have coffee, and I mustn't keep you."

  "It's no trouble at all. Honestly, I'd be glad for the company. You know how my uncle is—all work and no play. You'll give me someone to chat to while he fusses with his potions."

  "Oh…then, thank you. How much do I owe? Five cents, isn't it?" She reached a not-terribly-steady hand towards her purse.

  Peter cleared his throat, not looking at his nephew. "Actually, Mrs. King, the ingredients were quite cheap this week. It's only two cents." He didn't need to charge his poorer clients much; he occasionally consulted for the police, which paid well, and he owned his own premises. Though he wasn't rich, he had no pressing money concerns. There was a fine line, however, between charging a low price and letting Mrs. King know it was charity. He hoped Joel wouldn't let on.

  "Oh! Well, thank you, dear." She fished out two pennies. "And it's kind of you to let me stay a bit. I must admit I'm dreading the walk back."

  "Why don't I make tea to go with the cinnamon rolls," suggested Joel. "I'm not hungry for coffee anyway. And we can walk back together. You
never did show me that quilt you made."

  Peter bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling and bent back to his task. He was making bedbug sachets for several women in the neighborhood; apparently one of the children at school had gotten an infestation, and everyone wanted to be prepared against a similar onslaught. It wasn't difficult or complicated to make, and he listened with most of his brain to Joel and Mrs. King chattering away.

  This was typical of Joel. Flighty, forgetful, and foolish to the point of being crass, yet taking an interest in the old lady who had chronic pain and no young relatives to look after her. He would spend half an hour or more in her company, talking brightly and listening to her avidly, and then flit on with his life, forgetting all about her, until the next time he saw her and remembered every detail she'd shared. He was a mass of contradictions, Joel, but very kind underneath his butterfly nature.

  Peter still didn't know whether Joel liked men, women, or both. Joel hadn't said, and it didn't overly occupy Peter. But he thought that Joel would be comfortable with whoever he was, and his parents would never make him feel ashamed. And that gave Peter a great measure of relief—just in case his nephew was like him, and noticed men instead of women. At least, young ones: he seemed quite taken with Mrs. King.

  #

  "Hello!" Lee's friendly voice accompanied the little bell above the shop. Peter disconnected the cuckoo during regular hours; it would have driven him batty to hear it every time a customer came in or out.

  He looked up and gave Lee a brief smile, then went back to giving the nervous young man before him instructions. "Three times a day as a tea. It should cure the queasiness. If it doesn't, come right back, and bring her along if you can."

  The young man pocketed the packet of magic-laden herbs and hurried from the shop, his head down, hatless. He had the scruffy look of a man who had taken care of his own clothes but wasn't used to it, and the tension on his face perfectly reflected his fear about his young wife's pregnancy.

  Peter gazed after them with a tight, sad nostalgia. He'd often wondered what it would be like to be a father, to have a family. If only such things could be for him. If he'd been able to change himself... But there were some things even magic couldn't do, and this life was less miserable than a life full of lies and hiding.

  "So, you dispense medical advice, too?" Lee smiled at him. "I'm sorry I couldn't make it yesterday. Got quite busy. Your magic on my ingredients—amazing!" He shook his head. "I definitely need to pay you for your time and effort. It was…my business really took off. I think I sold thirty percent extra!"

  "It was nothing. You needn't pay me." In fact, he was embarrassed Lee would even mention it. Food magic was one of the easiest sorts for him—far too easy to think of charging for, in this case. The simplest spell for his clients took more thought and effort. All he'd had to do for Lee was pull tendrils of magic from the surrounding atmosphere and touch it to the food, igniting the best of its flavors, unlocking what was already there. He'd been able to do it when he was a child.

  Lee and his assistant, Kole, had watched with every sign of fascination while Peter worked. They couldn't really see any changes, but Kole had sworn he could feel a tingle in his fingers. "My grandmother on my mother's side had a bit of magic," he'd informed Peter solemnly, as though that ought to impress him.

  "I really think I ought to pay you," said Lee now, regarding Peter gravely, and for once not smiling. He had a smudge of flour on his cheek. The sight of it twisted Peter's heart. He had to fight to keep from reaching out and stroking it away.

  He wasn't allowed to have those feelings. Errant dreams and enjoyment of Lee's company aside, he simply wasn't allowed. Hadn't he wasted enough of his life pining for what was unavailable? It was right to live in the present, and enjoy what he did have—a successful shop that helped people. And a friend. That's all Lee was, or probably ever could be.

  "It was really no bother. I couldn't charge you, not even a penny."

  "I don't want there to be any debts between us."

  He snorted. "There aren't. Besides, you don't accept payment for the food you bring me."

  Lee's cheeks colored. "That's different."

  "How?" Peter couldn't help laughing a little at Lee's adorable, flustered confusion. The man really was dreadfully handsome, smiling, embarrassed, or any way at all. "If that's the gesture of a friend, then so is this. I really didn't mind."

  "A friend…" said Lee softly, his mouth twitching downwards. "Well…um…yes. But how's that spell coming for me?" His hands moved restlessly at his sides.

  Peter's smile died, and he had no difficult in keeping a straight face now. He looked at Lee gravely. "I'm afraid it will take a few more days. It's a delicate spell that takes time as well as magic and ingredients. I'm trying to do a good job for you. I can't really hurry it without making it terribly crude and perhaps painful for both parties. The sudden shock of a realization, even a not-unpleasant one, can have side effects. It's much better if I let it mellow and blend properly. I'm sorry if you're in a hurry, but I really believe it will be no time at all before you're…you're in a situation like Mr. Hurst, coming to me for advice for your young wife's situation. So please be patient a little while longer so I can get it just right."

  Lee stared at him. His eyes had held a fascinated attention while Peter spoke, and now the embarrassment and nerves were gone from him as if they'd never been. There was something arresting about his gaze, and kind.

  He put a hand on Peter's, and squeezed, giving it a slight, friendly shake. "I'm such a coward," he muttered, shaking his head and looking down. Then he raised his eyes, gratitude shining in them, and rueful self-acceptance. "But thank you. Thank you."

  #

  Two policemen entered the shop, chattering and bickering. One had blond hair, one had hair even redder than Peter's nephew and far too many freckles to boot. "Hey, Mr. C," said Constable Miles, leaning on the counter and giving Peter a cheeky grin. "Check this bit of evidence for us, wouldja?"

  He jerked at thumb at his yellow-haired partner, who looked embarrassed. "Um, yes, well, we found this…this sachet thing at the crime scene, and Millie here said you'd know—"

  "Milton!"

  "Milt here said—"

  "Milton, you dolt!" Heat flamed his cheeks hot, obscuring his freckles with the bright red flush, and he turned a meaningful glare on his partner.

  The light-haired man laughed a little. "Um. Yes. Milton said you'd know. Said you know about all the magic in this neighborhood."

  Peter looked at the bickering policemen. Cops all seemed young to him these days, fresh-faced boys close to Joel's age who made him feel older than ever.

  He'd seen Milton Miles on patrol duty, flat-footing it through the neighborhood on his evening rounds, but the other boy was new. He nodded at them and held out a hand to them cautiously. "Um, yes, I can certainly take a look for you, Mister…?"

  "Constable Jan Lanstrom," said Milton, putting a malicious emphasis on the first name.

  Lanstrom laughed. "Yes sir. And everybody in the neighborhood's got good things to say about you, sir, so I'm pleased to make your acquaintance."

  Peter cleared his throat. "Yes. Well. Thank you. The sachet?"

  "Oh. Right here." He handed it over in his big mitt of a paw.

  "Where did you find this?" He turned it over, frowning.

  The policemen exchanged quick looks—looks of warning silence and collusion. "Ah, 'fraid we can't say, sir. You understand. Police business." Miles held his hat in front of him, looking apologetic as a schoolboy.

  "Well, it's one of mine." Peter frowned, turning over the tiny brown sack. He didn't have to open it to know it was filled with sand, though the gentle soothing and healing magic was drained now and it held an echo of something horrible in its place.

  He looked up, putting the thing down quickly on the counter. It had become an ugly thing, instead of helpful. "This belonged to a Mr. Theodore Johnson. I sold it to him to help his asthmatic cough.
It particularly bothered him in the smog."

  He stared at the young men, who now looked solemn and grave, their professional expressions hiding something from him. "He wouldn't have left this lying around, and it has soaked up some very unpleasant magic, wherever it's been. Was it stolen from him, or has he been killed?" He searched their faces—one pug-nosed, the other long and straight and patrician.

  "Can you tell us what sort of magic it's soaked up, Mr. Cardon?" asked Lanstrom, all business. "You'll receive your consultation fee from the department, of course."

  "Of course," said Peter numbly, looking back and forth between them. "He must be dead, then, if it's official. I'm—I'm terribly sorry to hear it." He caught hold of the desk and swayed slightly, closing his eyes. Just what he needed—to look like a doddering old fool in front of the police!

  "Here, Mr. C!" Miles moved forward, scraping a chair up behind him and catching hold of his arm, steering him back to sit down. "You okay? Hey, get him a glass of water, Jan!"

  "You do it. I couldn't find a thing in this place. You all right, Mr. Cardon?"

  "Yes, yes, quite all right. I'm sorry." He held his head in his hands, catching deep breaths. When Miles returned with a mug of water, Peter drained it and finally straightened up, looking at the young men, searching their gazes. "I'm…I'm very sorry he's died. I can't think it's accidental with the magic that thing absorbed, either."

  "What magic? Just tell us." Miles gripped his arm.

  He swallowed hard, a painful gulp. "Death magic." He looked down at his knees, twiddling his fingers there uselessly. "It's a…a sort of after-effect. Because the sand was used to hold the spell I made for him—a gentle, mild spell to improve his health—it was receptive to the…the input of other magic that might be around it. And something quite powerful blasted near that thing, not long ago." He gestured to the sachet, not wanting to touch it or even look at it now. Why, it was probably still around poor Teddy's neck when he died…