by Robin Moray
Kevin groaned, tilting his head back to stare at the roof lining. "I know, all right? But it's not that easy."
"You gave up on that girl you liked so much in school."
"Yeah, well, I got distracted by boys."
Artemis smiled, thin but definitely a smile. "I remember. I think the whole town remembers that."
Kevin went hot with embarrassment. "Artie! Don't remind me."
Coming out had been an accident, but one of those lucky accidents that he chalked up to magic being magic again.
The trick with magic was not to use it for selfish, terrible things. If you did it always found a way to come round and bite your ass when you least expected it. So, spreading a little warmth over Mrs Williams' roses to keep off the frost wouldn't do you any harm, but, say, using it to turn lead into gold would probably end in a world of horrible. It depended. It was all about intention.
Anyway, since Nanna Abigail had always insisted he never use magic for selfish, terrible things, and because he liked using it to help people out wherever he could, he'd apparently stored up enough good magic karma for magic to do him the occasional solid.
He couldn't imagine any other reason why, when he was caught making out with Brandon in the bleachers when Brandon was supposed to be with Meghan at the spring dance, everyone had told everyone but no-one, yet, seemed to have taken it amiss. It was just a fact: Kevin Mallory had his hand up Brandon Garrick's vest at the spring fling, and when she caught them Meghan Walsh had thrown a cup of punch at them both but ultimately ended up marrying Brandon right after graduation. So, everything worked out.
Even the older folk in Haversham never said anything bad about it. Sometimes they were thoughtless, and there was the time he'd had to explain to old Mister Schmitt that he didn't actually have a dozen boyfriends scattered around the county, and just one would have been fine. That had been awkward.
Still, the upshot of it was that mostly no-one mentioned it, and sometimes the Rotarian ladies would try to set him up on a date with the son or nephew or grandson of someone they knew. It never worked out.
Things were mostly okay. Nothing very bad ever happened. Even with his father … that could have gone much worse. There was a lot to be grateful for. He just wished he could be grateful to something other than magic.
Especially when it seemed like magic was screwing with him just now.
"Do you ever get the feeling that magic is, oh, this weirdly insane totally arbitrary living thing with a really shitty sense of humor?" he asked, not really expecting an answer.
Artemis gave him a weird look. "Yes. Actually, exactly that. In fact, I think that might be the most insightful thing you've ever said about magic."
It figured.
* * *
Driving around Haversham in the dark without Kevin was, simply, unbearable. And pointless; Peter couldn't get a bloody read on any magic at all, besides the background pulse and flare of nodal points scattered seemingly at random around the town and its environs. Eventually, he just pulled over at one of them, got out of the car, and walked away to stretch his legs.
It turned out that this particular node was a moderately sized totem pole situated at one end of a largely deserted caravan park. Some dried flowers were stung about the base, along with an unopened can of Spam, for some bizarre reason. The pole was an ugly thing, brightly painted and set in a concrete base. It felt inauthentic, the magic in it new and frail. Peter was no expert, of course, could not pretend to know anything on the subject of indigenous culture, but he suspected this one had been carved mechanically, and that the belief buried in it was the mistaken belief of tourists and children.
Belief, though, was still belief, for whatever reason. It was still a node. Probably not one that would attract a witch, unless they were quite desperate.
The witch boy, though, might easily be that desperate. Peter had felt … it was strange, honestly, what he'd felt from the boy. His magic had stung, sharp and hot, fizzing like a sherbet lemon, but not … well, not precisely what Peter had expected. More like … seawater in the back of the throat, unpleasant and shocking, but not the foulness he expected from a witch.
The witch boy, then, might not have yet committed much in the way of evil. And this, he supposed, had been Kevin's point, when Kevin had argued so passionately against the universal evil of witchcraft.
Kevin … Peter stopped, unable to continue in this line of thought. He should not think too much about Kevin, because Kevin was a distraction, a wonderful, delicious diversion from what was laid out before him, from his duty. It was becoming difficult to keep from touching him constantly and, oh, to kiss him, how Peter wanted that with an urgency that was almost painful.
Yet. He was not a beast. He could control himself. He would not fall ravenous upon Kevin like some mindless monster, when he did not even know if Kevin would want to be kissed. Though, no, that was unfair, that was more than half the problem. Kevin seemed so … it was obvious, in the way he bent toward Peter, the way he leaned, the way his touch lingered when Peter's lingered on him, that Kevin was inclined toward him. Not that it gave Peter leave to kiss him; Kevin might have very good reason not to want it, however much he might also want it. And, how distant he had become today, toward the end, pulling away again however reluctantly. Perhaps—
You're a fool, Peter Sloane, he thought. Thirty-two years old and standing in the dark vacillating about a handsome young man who smiles at you. Just ask him. Then, if he says yes, kiss him and be done with it.
Except he would not be 'done' with it, not satisfied with just a kiss. He wanted Kevin, wanted every inch of him, wanted to lick over his skin and—
He stopped himself. It was unfair to fantasise about a man he had no right to touch, who had not given his leave. Kevin deserved better than that. (But would he want it? Was he, even now, thinking of Peter in this way? And he would be sweet, Peter was sure, sweet as a peach—)
It was a horrible shock to realise that the two faint points of light hovering in the shadows of the trees before him were eyes.
There was a moment where he just stared. Then Peter sent a sharp stab of his self forward to test—yes, the blister of tangy magic, and he knew it now, hot and fizzy and chiming like crystal.
He leapt forward, automatically reaching out to catch the magic and drain it away but the witch seemed to shiver out of existence, vanishing into the trees. Peter crashed in after him, and then hesitated. The tang of magic was gone without a trace. He let his self diffuse out, seeking for any sign; there was none. And yet.
It had been a spell, he was sure of it. It had felt familiar, because it was the same one, he guessed, that had been used in the Stone Garden, though differently flavoured because that casting, perhaps, had been the other witch.
There were two, don't forget. There may be two here now. Or three. Lord help me, if there's three.
It wasn't the same as what Cordelia had done up at the Point. Less magic, for a start. Mild, no surge of power, no burst. Cordelia had leveraged the power afforded her by the node that was the Point itself because the jump had required it. But this, whatever it was, had not required a sudden influx of power. It was a small magic, subtle. And therefore, perhaps, much simpler.
Not a teleportation, then, but maybe concealment. In which case—
He reached out, not seeking but in order to catch magic, groping blindly with fingers made of spirit and will, and siphoning off anything he found, and almost immediately he hit a vein of magic that jumped and jittered in his grasp like a firecracker. He drained it off; the magic was spitting-hot and impossible to hold; he vented it into the night air and kept going. Then, it was as though the pressure in his ears had popped, and the glamour hiding the witch burst like a bubble.
There was a sharp cry then the crash of someone running through the undergrowth, and Peter lurched after them, mindful of the foolishness of running in the woods in the dark. There was not light enough to see much, and he did not know these woods, and after the
first whip of branch across his face he kept an arm up in front of his head and prayed he wouldn't break an ankle in a hole.
The sound of running suddenly stopped, there was a sudden discharge of magic, and Peter hesitated. He sent out a thread of enquiry, and certainly the air was clouded with magic but there was no other sign of the witch.
He stayed stock still, letting the tendrils of his self grope in the darkness for magic, but all he encountered was this low-grade bloom of it, clogging his senses like—
Like smoke. He stiffened, realising too late; something struck him hard on the back of the head and he reeled, collapsing to his knees, his world gone to fireworks and pain.
It took him a little while to recover, and the whole time he felt so very, very stupid.
He struggled to his feet and, ugh, was he bleeding? Maybe not, maybe just bruised. It hurt, all the same. He supposed he ought to be thankful for that.
Clever, though, of the witch to use magic as a screen. Cleverer than Peter running off into the woods with no torch and no plan and no back-up.
This is why we don't go alone, he told himself, knowing the fruitlessness of it but unable to help himself. This is why … you need him. Except he didn't, he shouldn't. Kevin had shown how much he did not want to be a part of this business, how he sympathized with them. Peter should not involve him further.
Even if, right now, it would be nice to have someone to call, someone to take a look at his head and tell him off for his recklessness, someone to, perhaps, drive him back to the motel, or simply to worry that he might have a concussion.
But he had none of that, and no right to it. He certainly had no right to put Kevin in this kind of danger, simply to ameliorate his own.
He'd just have to stay away from Kevin, and work out some way to deal with Cordelia (and these other witches) on his own.
Chapter 9
Kevin saw her in the grocery store and nearly dropped his basket.
Cordelia.
She was out of place there, dressed all in black with her hair loose around her shoulders, her face made up pale as a corpse. She looked like a witch, the stereotypical sort of witch people always seemed to fear their teenage daughter turning into. Or, Kevin supposed, just someone who was really into some kind of gothic-y death metal. And she was frowning at a box of crackers as though they had personally offended her. As soon as he saw her he caught the whiff of corrupted magic, the same acrid crushed-ants-and-battery-acid stink he remembered from the Ash Grove. It made him shudder; how awful it was, how wrong, how absurd for it and her to be here in the grocer's where Kevin bought his food.
He backed up into the aisle, his heart-rate going through the roof. His first thought was to call Artemis or Bella but in all seriousness what were they going to do? Plus, it would take them half an hour to get into town, and by then she'd probably have got away. Could he follow her? Find out where she was hiding? Maybe, but if she caught him … yeah, no, he had no illusions about his chances of not ending up a magical grease-stain.
He'd just avoid her, get out of the shop, call Artemis, wait for further instructions. Satisfied, he snuck down to the other end of the aisle, peered around to make sure she was still pre-occupied with crackers (yes) and hadn't seen him (probably no) before making his way to the register.
Mrs Blanden was behind the counter; she smiled at him and his heart sank, because he knew what was coming. "Kevin, dear! I was just telling Dorothy the other day—you know Dorothy, Wendy's sister, lives over in Everley—that you might be just the young man to take her Mia out for dinner some time. She's divorced now, poor thing, and so gloomy about it, but a lovely young woman all the same. And do you know, she's a librarian? So of course I thought of you, dear, because it sounds perfect, you with the shop and her with her books, I expect you'll have lots to talk about. I have her telephone number here somewhere, just let me get my purse …"
Kevin knew from experience this could go on for ages, but he couldn't bring himself to be rude to her. It was Mrs Blanden, he'd known her since he was in diapers, she was friends with his nanna, for pity's sake. "Uh, Mrs Blanden? I'm sort of … in a hurry, actually."
"Oh, it's no bother," she told him cheerfully, rummaging in the depths of an ancient purse, filled to the brim with receipts and pens and candy wrappers. "You remember Mia, don't you? She went to school in Cary Hills, but if I remember correctly, and I always do you know, you two were in Junior Trackers together the year poor Natalie Green discovered she was allergic to bees."
Kevin had a vivid memory of Nat's face blown up like a balloon. Mia, though, he didn't remember at all. The space between his shoulders itched, and he had to resist the urge to look back to see if they were being watched. "Um, not really. But, I'm sorry, I have to go. So could you please put these through, then, then I'll come back later for the number?" And I'll listen to her, he promised the powers that be, For a whole half an hour, just let me get out of here now, please.
She waved a hand at him, "This won't take a moment, dear."
Oh, for God's sake. He pulled out his phone, wondered if he dared to fake getting a call, but then, no, he had a better idea.
He sent a message; almost at once the phone rang back at him, and he sighed, relief coming over him like a wave. "Sorry," he said, shrugging and trying his best to look reluctant. "I have to take this."
He stepped into the street and around the corner of the shop, glancing back to see if the warlock had followed him out.
"Hey," he said into the phone. "Thanks for that."
"Are you all right?" Peter sounded odd. It was hard to tell when Kevin couldn't read his expression.
"Um?" Kevin peeked around the edge of the building. Still no sign of Cordelia. Maybe she was still glowering at crackers. "Not really, no."
* * *
The answer, Peter had decided, would be to avoid Kevin entirely. This might have been easier had they been in a larger town, or if Kevin were less … magnetic. Peter found himself gravitating toward him, footsteps pausing outside the bookshop, turning at noon toward the one sandwich shop in the whole bloody village only to tear himself away. He ended up buying cheese biscuits from the Rotarian shop near the church, eating them perched on the churchyard wall while wishing for a scone and definitely not regretting his self-imposed exile.
Kevin hadn't contacted him but Peter had stared at the entry in his address book dozens of times, thumb hovering over the screen. He could call him. He could text him, at least. He could … put his phone away and not text him. That would be the sensible option.
Was he seeing things that simply were not there? Kevin's smile, the warmth in his eyes, the way his hands would drift up, out, almost touching, as if tugged forward on fine invisible cords … these things were real. But he didn't know if they meant anything. And certainly, the way that Kevin had turned from him, shoulders stiff and angry, had been real too.
It was for the best, he told himself. Kevin could have been hurt at the Point, and again in the Garden, and if he should come to harm from a witch because Peter permitted it, then Peter would never forgive himself.
And for that reason he could not sit staring at his phone, struggling with this damnable urge to hear the sound of Kevin's voice.
As if to taunt him, his phone suddenly vibrated; he fumbled it, nearly dropped it, was exceedingly glad nobody was around to see it. He had a text, from Kevin, as if thinking of him could summon him. Peter's heart leapt, juddering anxiously against his ribs, his fingers suddenly thick and weak and useless. Good God, he felt like a teenager.
The text said only: Can you call me? Please.
He dialed immediately, and when Kevin didn't immediately pick up it made him instantly worry. But, in the end—
"Hey!" Kevin sounded so relieved it only made Peter's worry worse. "Thanks for that."
He swallowed, torn between concern and the heart-squeezing pleasure of hearing that voice. "Are you all right?"
"Um? Not really, no."
Peter found he'd lurc
hed to his feet, had already started walking down the street toward the village centre. "Are you hurt?" He tried to slow down, telling himself he had no idea where Kevin was, and he should go back for the car, and all that through a sudden haze of panic.
"No, sorry, don't worry. But, um, I just saw Cordelia in the grocery store."
Peter couldn't have heard that right. "I beg your pardon?"
"Cordelia," Kevin hissed. "She's buying crackers."
So he had heard it right. "Where are you now?"
"Alleyway next to the grocers. The one with the dumpster in it. Um. I haven't seen her come out, yet, so she's still in there."
Peter could see the grocery store at the end of the block So he had been going in the right direction. How fortunate. "Did she see you?"
"I don't know. I don't think so. Maybe? Mrs Blanden talked for ages, I dunno."
"Stay where you are," Peter cautioned him. "I'm coming."
"Hey … Mrs Blanden's going to be okay, isn't she?"
Peter hesitated. "Probably."
"Probably? If she gets eaten by a, a murdering witch my nanna will kill me."
Peter was on the threshold, about to go in, but then—"She should be fine. If … there need not be a confrontation." Though … Cordelia was in there. He had to go after her. He would.
And if he did? How much damage could they do between them?
Dammit.
He turned, walked away, rounding the corner to find Kevin leaned up against the wall, looking surprised with his phone to his ear. "Oh! Hi."
Peter hung up. "Hello," he said, feeling foolish. Kevin looked good. Mercy, of course he did, so very handsome even in an alleyway beside a bin. And how elated he was, for a moment, seeing Peter and letting his mouth broaden into a heartfelt smile.