by Parker Foye
Julian flicked a bit of apple off the knee of his jeans. He wondered if this might be what going mad felt like.
Surprising both him and her brother, Emily answered. “We’re here about the will, Julian.”
“What will?” He knew only one will of note, and it was none of their fucking concern.
Either Philip sensed the outburst of temper crackling on the horizon, despite having no capacity for magic or foresight, or he’d realized they’d overstepped. He put down the apple and deigned to swallow his mouthful before speaking.
“Your mom’s will. There’s a—”
Julian leaned forward. “That’s nothing to do with you—”
“—bit that says you might not—”
“—you’ve got no right coming here—”
“—stand to inherit if—”
“—you fucking twice-cursed piece of shit!” Julian’s chest heaved as he fought for breath. His face burned, and to his humiliation, he could feel tears threatening to fall. He’d risen to his feet at one point and shoved the heel of his hand against Philip’s broad chest as if to push him away, but Philip held him in place. The air crackled with static, making Emily’s hair frizz where she stood at Philip’s shoulder. Philip was shaking and pale.
Wait. That’s me shaking.
“Shit. Sorry.” Julian took a deep breath and expelled it. He concentrated on the well of magic at his core and pressed it down until the waves stopped sloshing. With effort he stepped away from Philip. Emily’s hair smoothed into place. “Sorry.”
Philip’s color began to return. Emily stepped beside him, bumping his shoulder with hers. She glared at Julian. It was like being glared at by a mouse unexpectedly holding an AK-47. Julian barely quelled the urge to retreat, even with magic eager to leap to his fingers. He’d never before noticed the darkness shrouding Emily, standing in Philip’s shadow as she did, but in the hotel lobby, it curled around her like a beloved pet. He wondered if she knew it was there.
“You scared my brother, Julian Col-cock-hoon. You’ll regret it. Come along, Philip.”
Stunned, like he’d been caught in the backwash of his own spells, Julian watched Emily and Philip leave the hotel until they were barely smudges on the other side of the automatic doors. His ears felt stuffed with silence from the shock of almost losing control, and after a few rapid heartbeats, he realized the hotel lobby was as quiet as a held breath. He glanced around to find six people staring at him, the only movement generated by the enthusiastic Las Vegas air-conditioning.
Thank every power Lauren’s already left. She’d have his head on one of her spiked heels if she’d seen that display.
Two security guards, one in the red mage uniform, eyed him warily. He hadn’t noticed their arrival, lost in his temper. Julian rubbed his face and rotated his wrists until they cracked, shaking off the last of the magic thrumming at his fingertips. One of the guards spoke into the radio at his shoulder, still watching Julian.
Someone clearing their throat drew Julian’s attention, and he found Mr. Pimlicoe—brave, wonderful, Mr. Pimlicoe—holding the hotel phone out and looking at Julian expectantly.
“Phone call for you. Sir. A Ms. Tanaka.”
Mr. Pimlicoe’s voice held some kind of magic, as the other guests all bustled to life like figures in a music box. Even the security guards seemed to relax, though they didn’t leave. Wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans, Julian crossed the lobby and took the handset with a grateful smile.
“Mariko! Wonderful to hear from you—”
“Shut up. You’re paying for this call.”
“Shutting up.” Julian turned away from Mr. Pimlicoe and leaned against one of the hotel’s ostentatious marble pillars, the stone cooling his sweaty face.
“We’ve finally managed to translate that tricky subclause in your mother’s will—you know the one, goddamn magecraft, may it rot in hell. Shut up, I’m still talking. The clause states you’ll only inherit if you’re in a, and I quote, ‘stable relationship or magical bond, as demonstrated to both mundane and magical administration, by the end of the year in which this will is read,’ end quote. I’m still talking. We’ve been investigating with our counterparts at the Mage Alliance Administration and the clause is under a legal binding.” She went silent on the line for a moment, as if waiting, then tutted. “You may now speak.”
Julian took a breath. “The MAA are the biggest pile of—”
“You’re on the clock,” Mariko interrupted.
“…Right. Worst-case scenario?”
“You don’t prove it by the end of the year and the money goes to the next in line. Which is your cousin, Philip Lexington. He’s already been informed of the opportunity to inherit. We would have told you, but you’ve been dodging my calls and his lawyers are extremely persistent. Therefore, I suppose it depends on how you feel about that.”
Which explained why Philip and Emily had come sniffing around. To check the likelihood of their inheriting his mother’s estate. The shits. Julian abruptly felt less bad about his loss of control. And a bond? His mother had an obscure sense of humor. He found himself smiling, despite the irritation and the pang of grief. Still matchmaking.
He considered. “Can I fake the bond?”
Mariko hummed. “As your lawyer, I’m not going to advise other than to state the bond will be checked by the MAA.”
So that’s a no.
He couldn’t let Philip inherit. More than Mage Matilda’s sizable fortune had been listed in the will.
Maybe Julian could bribe someone at the MAA to wave through the approval of his bond application? He had plenty of spare cash from his father’s inheritance—at least the Colquhouns had been good for something—his trust fund, and his various business interests. Surely professional administrators could do with some surplus income? And the mundane partners were, what, his lawyers? They’d be easy enough to get on his side, with Mariko in his corner.
“I can hear you plotting. This is good. One last thing, though. Your bond partner will be independently vetted, and you’ll need to be together for at least six months, at which time your bond will be reconfirmed and you’ll come into your inheritance.”
“Wait a minute, bond partner? And what do you mean, six months?”
“How did you think a bonding works, Julian? You can’t hire someone from Kijiji for a night and call it done. This is the law. Anyway, got a meeting, have to go. Make an appointment when you land. Ursula, what’s this—” The line went silent as Mariko moved on to another appointment.
Julian blinked at the dead handset. “Always good to chat with you.” He passed the phone to Mr. Pimlicoe. Julian’s head felt filled with air. With helium. Everything sounded high-pitched and shrill. His ears rang.
“Bond partner.” Julian hadn’t even considered panicking over that, too busy with bribery. And “at least six months.” Julian’s longest relationship had been with the bottle, in the dark days after his mother’s death. The relationship stayed with him through months of bad decisions, the biggest among them Lyle Hargreaves. And he hadn’t even managed to make that work. Julian really wasn’t the relationship type.
Julian headed upstairs with a heavy tread. Who the hell would put up with him for six months? Even Lyle had only managed five.
Besides which, “magical bonds” were about as common as hen’s teeth. He’d argued as much with his favorite student, Nolan.
If the MAA hadn’t been involved, Julian would’ve given serious thought to bribery, but the MAA had been on Julian’s arse since his registration as a mage. He’d been halfway through school and they hadn’t believed he was truly testing as a level six, putting him in the top 15 percent of mages in the world, with potential for growth. His mother had quelled them with a glare, looming over the registrar until he’d signed Julian into the official ledger and given him his paperwork.
They’d asked him several times to be retested in the years since, and Julian had taken satisfaction in burning their requests with quicker a
nd quicker incendiary spells. Independent testing—of his own design—put him firmly as a seven, as his mother had been. But without her to delight in their becoming equals, what did it matter?
It figured that he’d have to go back to the MAA and eat crow eventually.
Entering his room, Julian yanked the tie from his hair and flopped onto his bed. The room smelled like sex, and he pressed his head into the clean side of the pillow, trying to block out the scent. Suddenly the encounter with the waiter seemed like a symptom of a deep-rooted problem Julian had little interest in fixing, until the tree of his issues smashed through his living room window and got glass everywhere.
Or something like that. Julian wasn’t in the right frame of mind for metaphor.
Rolling over with a dramatic groan, something crinkled beneath his arse. Shifting, Julian unearthed a piece of headed paper and discovered Lauren had left a note with his flight times and confirmed his cab reservation. She’d booked a flight at four in the morning, and his appointment with the client was later the same day. He definitely needed to apologize to her with something expensive.
Julian groaned again, more loudly than when the waiter had sucked his cock, though not nearly as enthusiastically.
Looks like vacation time is over.
Chapter Three
WEST waited at the mage’s office, above a bookstore in Kensington Market. He’d been there long enough that his coffee had gone cold and he’d picked his pastry to pieces. There were no magazines in the waiting area, and West had banned himself from checking his emails more than once an hour, which left him with the sole entertainment option of staring at the wall hangings and wishing he could climb into them.
He shouldn’t have come to Toronto. He should’ve found another mage, one who’d come visit him, and stayed at the cabin. The noises and smells of the city were nearly overwhelming, with people coming and going from all directions, chatting to each other or on their phones or—on one memorable occasion—to themselves.
Joe had loaned him his truck, handing over the keys with a dubious expression West had chosen to ignore. Halfway through his journey, still stuck in traffic near Barrie, West began to understand why Joe thought driving to and from Toronto in one day was a herculean task. But West needed to see the mage. He didn’t have time to be uncomfortable.
When he finally reached Yorkdale, where Lauren had advised him to take the subway downtown, West had been grateful for all the training he’d had as a kid about calming his lycan side. No one in Toronto knew how to drive.
After paying nearly a day’s wage to park, he followed Lauren’s instructions and descended to the platform, but immediately ran back up the stairs and nearly all the way home. He’d wanted to claw off his nose to get rid of the smell. Only shallow breathing and the thought of Joe’s laughter had made him return underground.
How do people do that every day?
A woman with pink hair colored like leopard print had helped West find his bearings at the other end, and he’d walked the rest of the way to the mage’s office. After his dreadful journey, he hoped to speak with Colquhoun, put his case across, agree on a price, and be on his way inside of an hour, to return Joe’s truck before dark. Yet with each passing minute, escape looked less likely.
A door opened. Lauren, who’d arranged the appointment, strode in, her towering heels making her taller yet. She snapped her gum and scowled at her tablet, jabbing something, before her expression smoothed out and she smiled at him. West tried not to wrinkle his nose at her artificial scent.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Lauren said, her British accent strange to his ears. “Mage Colquhoun is on his way. There was a delay at the airport.”
“It’s okay.” West caught himself scratching his nose again and folded his hands together. “I can go. I should go. I—”
Lauren shook her head. “No, no. Really. Please stay. Your protection spells need renewing, don’t they? That’s our specialty. And you came all this way. Just—” A phone rang, and she glanced over her shoulder, before turning back to face him. “Just a few minutes more. Please excuse me.”
This is the worst. West didn’t do well with social situations. He didn’t know if he was being rude, or passive, or some inappropriate combination of both. Enhanced senses didn’t add any extra clues, and certainly not with the patina of magic covering everything for four square blocks, and smog the rest. Rubbing his nose, he returned to staring at the pictures on the wall. He found the desert landscape soothing.
A sudden thump, followed by a low curse, obliterated West’s attempt at meditation. He straightened in his seat, only to double over at the abrupt spike of magic, like a nail through his temple. He took in a breath through his nose and exhaled slowly.
Fresh coffee. Cinnamon buns. Tart citrus. West started at a gentle touch to his shoulder, catching the flash of blond hair.
“Are you all right?” Another strange accent, somewhere between British and Canadian.
West sat up, rubbing his nose in a way that would have Dana rapping his knuckles if she saw him. Were you raised by wolves? She thought she was hilarious.
“I’m okay, thank you. I’m—” He stopped, leaning back to assess the pretty boy in a bedraggled suit and sunglasses, with long hair and a stilted smile, frozen by West’s assessment. Magic rolled from him in waves. Mage Colquhoun.
Colquhoun wasn’t what West had expected. Nothing like the mages in stories, who were old and gray, stooped with responsibility. Tall and slim, Colquhoun looked like he’d stepped off one of the billboards plastered across the city, advertising cologne and overpriced watches.
West checked, not surprised to find Colquhoun wore one of those fancy watches, the type that looked like it could land a plane. West tried not to judge on appearance, and it wasn’t his business what people did with their money, but abruptly he became self-conscious about his own clothes. His jeans had ketchup marks on the knee, and he’d borrowed a blazer from Joe, meaning it hung loose on his shoulders, and Joe wore work boots in the kitchen so that’s what West owned. It was all he had. Crossing one toe over the other, like that’d help hide the boots, West glanced at the desert over Colquhoun’s shoulder.
“I’m West. Irving. My—You came recommended. For protection spells? I need mine renewed. It’s important?”
Colquhoun pushed his sunglasses into his hair. West spotted a thin gold ring around his pupils, marking Colquhoun as a mage of some power. At least Dana hadn’t led him astray.
“I’m Mage Julian Colquhoun. Call me Julian. Call me frequently,” Colquhoun said, smirking. “And I’d be delighted to help with your problem. I trust you’ve been through the catalog and identified your current spells? I can do something bespoke, but it’s quicker to simply refresh the existing spells. Considerably cheaper too, if you don’t mind me saying.”
West tried not to read anything into Colquhoun’s remark. He nodded, a little stiffly. “Your coworker said—Excuse me.” West slid from his seat when Colquhoun leaned into his space, unable to endure the proximity of Colquhoun’s delicious scent. He crossed the room to stand with the desert at his shoulder. Colquhoun rotated on his heel as if tracking prey. “Stretching my legs. I saw the spells in the catalog, but mine weren’t there. They—”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. The spells—”
“Because it’s unlikely you’ve any spells not in there. It’s very comprehensive. Has all the standards.”
West felt a muscle tic in his jaw. “I’m sure it does. But—”
“Wait.” Colquhoun drifted across the room as they spoke, like West was a magnet, and he stood much too close when he scoffed. West could smell the coffee he’d drank. “Did someone put you up to this? Was it Philip? He’s such an ass. He knows I like them compact, with a bit of that bad-boy air, and the freckles are a nice touch, and the cologne—I can’t place it, but it’s delectable. I bet it was Philip. Wasn’t it? You can tell me.”
Even Dana couldn’t begrudge West’s f
lare of temper in the face of such crap. He controlled the urge to flash his teeth but didn’t quell his speed, shifting out of Colquhoun’s reach and putting his back to the door. Teeth aching with the sweetness of Colquhoun’s scent, ears burning with his frank assessment of West’s appearance, West executed a short bow the way his father had taught him.
“Thank you for your time, Mage Colquhoun. And sorry, but I think there’s been a mistake. Please thank Miss Lauren for me. Sorry again about the misunderstanding,” West said, speaking fast. He had to get outside. Even Toronto’s pollution would be a blessing compared to the close air of Colquhoun’s office.
Struggling with the door handle, West finally got it open and stumbled downstairs, waving off Lauren’s inquisitive look and feeling bad about his rudeness. Customers darted out of his way, and he hunched his shoulders, guilty at ruining Lauren’s business when she’d been kind to him, but his skin itched like the moon was rising full and he needed out, needed to run.
The close smoke-and-sweat air of the city stopped him in his tracks. For a moment West had let himself forget he wasn’t in the country. An intense delusion, as once outside, he could hardly be anywhere else. Warm blasts of air seeped from the subway grates, making his jeans stick to his legs even in the April weather, while the noise of construction added to his tension headache. People walked briskly by, none sparing a glance as West retreated around the nearest corner, into a street closed at the other end for construction.
The alley stank of stale piss and fried food, but West didn’t have the energy to care. He leaned against the wall, got his phone out, and searched for a mage willing to work protection spells. He found a likely choice in Las Vegas, but before he could read the contact details, a telltale sting made him close his eyes. West willed himself not to cry. The only thing more humiliating than crying would be—
“Are you all right?”
Would be Colquhoun seeing him cry. Furballs.
West rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Dust in my eye.” He fully expected Colquhoun to laugh at the feeble excuse, but instead, when he lowered his hands and dared to look, Colquhoun offered a half smile of understanding.