by Amir Lane
“You do, you’ve just never used them before. I can see it in people. And you’ve seen the way Abaddon and Abigail react to you.”
Warm fingers traced a path up Dieter’s spine. Dieter hummed and arched into the touch.
“Oh, you mean how they want to kill me.”
He captured Alistair’s mouth in another kiss before he could respond. Alistair’s strong hand settled on the back of his head.
Downstairs, the front door opened and slammed shut.
“Hey,” Lindy called, her voice muffled by the floor separating them.
Alistair caught Dieter’s hand as it travelled down his stomach.
“Sorry, I—I can’t. Not with your sister here. She’s a Seer, it’s just weird.”
“She wouldn’t know.”Dieter paused and pulled back, his brow knitting together. “Wait, how did you know she’s a Seer.”
“You told me. At that party, remember? Maybe you don’t, you were pretty drunk.”
“Yeah… I guess I was.”
He thought he remembered the night pretty well. He supposed it made sense that he wouldn’t remember everything. Still, he didn’t make a habit of mentioning Lindy’s powers. She didn’t like people knowing. He didn’t blame her. But he saw no reason for Alistair to lie. He rested his head back on Alistair’s chest.
“Anyway,” he said, “I’m pretty sure I’d know if I had any Necromancy whatever.”
“Not necessarily. You haven’t been using it. Magic is like any other muscle. You need to use it to develop it.”
“But not everyone has this muscle,” Dieter pointed out.
“You aren’t everyone. You could be really good at it if you tried.”
Dieter’s ankle caught Alistair’s. He still couldn’t decide how he felt about all this. He didn’t want to be a Necromancer, that much he knew. The Shadows still scared him. In fact, they scared him more, now that he knew they could hurt him, than they did before. Though, as sure as he was that he wasn’t a witch, he did like the thought of keeping the Shadows away. As long as he didn’t have to turn to Necromancy to do it.
“You keep saying that. How do you know for sure?” Dieter asked.
Alistair sighed.
“I keep telling you, we can just tell. And I bet the other witch that lives here can tell, too.”
“You mean Lenna?”
“The one with the Familiar.”
Dieter wrinkled his nose and shook his head.
“Lenna isn’t a witch. She doesn’t have any magic,” he said.
“Familiars are magic in their own right. Having one makes them a witch, even if they don’t have their own power or can’t tap into their Familiar’s.”
Dieter couldn’t remember Lenna mentioning anything like that. But then again, he’d never really asked. Maybe he would bring it up later.
“You said you could teach me to keep them away,” Dieter murmured.
“You can’t start at step ten, Dieter.”
There was an amused lilt to Alistair’s voice. Alistair’s fingers curled around the ends of Dieter’s hair.
“So what’s step one?”
“You should start by reading those books. It’ll give you an idea of how to start using magic.”
Dieter gave a slow nod.
“How long did it take you?” he asked.
“Well– I was pretty young when I started, so it didn’t really take me long. My parents are witches, too.”
“Are they also Necromancers?”
There was a long pause. A hard look crossed Alistair’s face. It made Dieter’s stomach knot a little. He wished he hadn’t asked.
“No,” Alistair finally said, “they aren’t. Necromancy… takes a lot more power than most people have.”
Dieter didn’t know what to say, so he just nodded.
Alistair’s phone buzzed on the small shelf next to Dieter’s bed, breaking the awkward silence. He grabbed it and tapped at the screen with his thumbs. He let out a long sigh.
“I have to go. My sister is having a crisis.”
Dieter stood up to give Alistair space. He watched him get dressed, taking in the sight of scars decorating his skin. Not wanting to be caught staring, he lowered his head and tugged his own clothes back on. His fingers ran over the spines of the books that Alistair pulled from his bag and set on his desk. A shiver ran down his spine, and he tasted blood on the back of his tongue.
“Are you okay?” Alistair asked.
“Yeah, I just… I’m fine.”
He saw Alistair out and locked the front door behind him.
“Your Necromancer gone?” Lindy asked.
She and Lenna were leaning over the railing. They were so casual about it. It was easy to forget that they were used to this world.
“He isn’t my Necromancer. But yeah, he’s gone.”
“Good,” Lenna said. “Creeps me out.”
“Same here. He’s like a black hole,” Lindy added.
“What the hell does that mean?” Dieter asked.
“It means—Okay, I can usually get something off most people. What kind of music they’re into, what they do for a living, if they have any siblings. Usually stupid shit. But him? Nothing. As far as my Sight is concerned, he doesn’t exist.”
Lindy’s words sat heavy in the pit of Dieter’s stomach.
“But there’s a bunch of cops who owed me favours—” Lindy seemed pleased by that if her grin was any sign. “—so I did some asking around.”
“How did you get anything?” Dieter asked. “All you had was his first name and that he’s a student.”
“Cops know everything,” Lenna said.
“He had some parking tickets. And ‘Alistair’ isn’t exactly a common name in this city.”
“Or century,” Lenna added.
Dieter sat down on the couch, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He motioned for Lindy to start sharing.
“I didn’t get much. His name is Alistair Cudmore. He’s originally from Kitchener-Waterloo. I think that’s not far from here.”
Lindy looked back at Lenna, who shrugged.
“Hour from Toronto, twenty minutes from here,” she said. “What? I know geography.”
“Anyway, he grew up in foster care. His sister apparently went a little batshit and cut him and his parents up before she—” Lindy dragged her thumb across her throat.
Dieter thought back to the scars on Alistair’s back and shuddered. It was too awful to think about. What would it be like if Lindy ever… Or if he—
He frowned.
“Hang on, back up a sec. Does he have more than one sister?” Lindy shook her head. “That doesn’t make sense. You must have the wrong Alistair. He just left to see his sister.”
Lindy shrugged this time. But Lenna dropped her phone on the kitchen counter, suddenly much more interested in the conversation.
“Well, either he has a foster sister somewhere, or he’s lying to you,” Lindy said.
“Or you have the wrong guy.”
Lindy raised an eyebrow.
“You know many Alistairs?” she asked.
“Necromancers are always bad news. Anyone who messes with dead things ain’t right in the head. Shit—no offence,” Lenna said.
“None taken,” Dieter said dryly. “He wouldn’t lie to me.”
“Alls I’m saying is, Necromancy never ends well. I heard about his one guy, his spirits ganged up on him and by the time they were done with him, it looked like they put him through a wood chipper.”
Dieter rolled his eyes. But he couldn’t help but think about the way Alistair’s Shadow had so easily cut his neck.
“I know they’re dangerous,” he said. “I’m not getting into Necromancy. I just want to see it I can make them leave me alone. You know, regular, garden variety witchcraft.”
Lindy pressed her lips together, but she eventually sighed.
“Fine. There’s no arguing with you. But if he steps out of line, Lenna’s going to hex him.”
“I
ain’t actually that kinda’ witch,” Lenna said.
“What kind of witch are you, anyway?” Dieter asked.
“The kind with a 60 kilo—sorry, 62 kilo—jaguar who can rip Mister the Necromancer’s face off.”
Dieter gave a satisfied nod. He couldn’t really argue with that.
He retreated back to his room. Three books were sitting on the edge of his desk where Alistair had left them. The spines were cracked and faded, making the titles impossible to read. Anxiety rising in Dieter’s stomach kept him from touching them just yet.
It was stupid. They were just books. They couldn’t hurt him.
A Shadow moved past him. A Shadow that actually could hurt him.
Biting his lip, Dieter grabbed the first book and opened it. Nothing happened. It was just a book. ‘Introductory Witchcraft: A Beginner’s Guide to Spells and Sigils,’ the inside cover read, ‘Kaydence Dixon and Trenton Ingram’. He’d seen those names in one of Lindy’s stacks of used divination books. He set it down and opened the other two: ‘Sensing Sensitives’ by Jim Sergei, and ‘Spirit Theory for Beginners’ by Mick Taylor.
Dieter wondered if he would see these books in a New Age section of a bookstore. Faux-witchcraft apparently came in and out of style, making the Normals, as Lindy liked to call them, feel special. Sure, a palm reader might pick up a book on Tarot to expand their repertoire and it might work for them. But a Normal would never be able to do more than memorise and regurgitate. Some might be good enough to fool another Normal, but witches could always tell. According to the witches downstairs, at least.
Dieter settled on his bed with ‘Sensing Sensitives’ and an empty notebook. It was the smallest, so it seemed like the best place to start. The only piece of information that was really new in the first chapter was that not all Sensitives were witches; it was the only form of witchcraft that extended to ‘those without any witchcraft.’ Maybe Lindy knew that. She was the one who did all the reading. Staying out of it had always made it easier to accept his diagnosis. Why encourage the delusion?
It was well past two in the morning by the time Dieter finished. He’d covered page after page in black pen, making sure to write down the hand-printed notes left by who he assumed was Alistair. His eyes burned with the effort to keep them open. The book slid onto the floor, his notebook following, and he wriggled out of his jeans. He fell asleep with the lights still on, too exhausted to notice Abigail leering at him from the end of his bed.
DIETER RESTED his head in Steven’s lap. Large fingers stroked through his hair, pushing his bangs from his face. He knew he shouldn’t be here. He felt filthy, sitting on the floor of his professor’s office. But Steven was murmuring praises, and it made Dieter’s jeans feel so much tighter than they were.
“Let me take care of you,” Steven said.
Dieter’s face felt hot. His skin tingled, nerves aflame beneath his skin as a thumb brushed across his cheekbone. He thought about someone hearing them and throwing the door open and catching them like this. But not even a Shadow disturbed them. The silence was almost overwhelming.
“I just want to sit here,” he murmured.
As nice as it would have been to give in, to let Steven take care of him, he wasn’t quite tired enough for that. He’d spent the past few nights poring over the books Alistair had given him. He had tried some of the tips for ‘unlocking magic’ but just like when he was a kid, nothing worked.
“Are you okay?” Steven asked. “You aren’t overworking yourself, are you?”
“No, I’ve just been working on some… extracurricular stuff.”
He didn’t want Steven to know that he was a Sensitive just yet. It didn’t seem to be the kind of thing one shared with the married professor they were fooling around with.
“What kind of extracurriculars?”
Dieter racked his brain through the list of campus clubs he’d seen back in September.
“French club,” he said.
“Tu parles français?”
Dieter tried not to wince. Of course Steven spoke French. Why couldn’t he have said German club? There was probably one of those around here somewhere.
“No. That’s what I’ve been working on.”
“I could teach you.”
Steven’s thumb moved over Dieter’s lower lip. Dieter couldn’t stop himself from flicking his tongue out. He pulled away before he could go further. Dammit, he needed to get a hold of himself. Figuratively speaking.
“C’mere,” Steven coaxed.
Dieter hesitated, but he found himself standing and leaning in close to Steven as a hand cupped him through his jeans. His eyes slipped shut, a soft sigh falling from his lips. Yes, this was exactly what his body wanted. The hand was so firm and warm. Heat surged through him.
He opened his eyes and caught Abigail sitting on the window ledge. Her head was tilted at an impossible angle, staring just like last time. Dieter jerked back, slamming his hip on the desk. The pain made his arousal falter.
“What’s wrong? What is it?”
If Abigail had a mouth, Dieter was sure she would be sneering at him. He could practically hear her thoughts: ‘I caught you, you dirty little home wrecker, you desperate little slut.’ But Shadows didn’t think. At least, Dieter told himself they didn’t. If he was honest, he still didn’t know half as much about them as he pretended to.
“What do you want?” he demanded, trying to keep his voice even.
Steven didn’t say anything, only pulled his hand back and leant away. Dieter’s body stung at the loss or warmth and pressure. But his mind was fixated on the Shadow.
She stared, her head tipping even more. Dieter could practically hear bone crunching. It made him gag. Dieter’s lungs felt too small, and his heart was beating too fast.
“Dieter—”
“I can’t be here,” Dieter said.
He only just had the presence of mind to grab his bag and jacket as he bolted out the door, stumbling over his feet. He didn’t pass anyone in the long, winding hallway. This washroom always seemed to be empty. He dumped his things on the floor, disregarding how dirty it probably was.
Bracing himself against a sink, Dieter tried to regulate his breathing. He wondered how many times he was going to run out on Steven like this. It was a joke, pretending he was the one in control. The Shadows were. They were always the ones in control.
The bathroom door creaked open. Dieter’s head snapped up. It was only Alistair, Abigail hovering at his side. Her invisible sneer only seemed to grow.
Dieter shrank back against the stall wall.
Alistair nodded his head at her, and she vanished.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Are you spying on me again? What are you doing here?”
Alistair stopped mid step. His eyes swept over Dieter’s body, settling on his crotch. His nostrils flared and anger replaced the concern on his features.
“You’re the only other Sensitive on campus. My spirits are tuned into you.”
“What?”
“Spirits are drawn to Sensitives,” Alistair explained slowly. “That power I keep telling you about? It draws them in. Abigail sensed you were… distressed. I asked her to make sure you weren’t hurt.”
“I wasn’t distressed,” Dieter managed.
Every hair on his body was standing on edge. It was Abigail, he told himself. She was the one who scared him, not Alistair.
“You look distressed,” Alistair said.
“Well, I’m distressed now!”
Alistair coughed to cover up a laugh. He moved in, each slow step echoing off the walls, and curled his hand around Dieter’s hip.
“Let me relax you,” he said.
Dieter swallowed. But Alistair’s eyes were sincere, and he was so skin hungry. He let Alistair manhandle him back in front of the sink. He could see his reflection in the mirror, flushed with pupils blown wide.
Alistair pressed a kiss to Dieter’s shoulder and coaxed him to relax. His hand was warm and just on t
he right side of firm.
It didn’t take long. Dieter was already so keyed up that he was falling apart in seconds. He felt weak, pliable, like the only thing keeping him upright was Alistair’s arm around his waist.
“You look exhausted. Let me buy you some coffee, you poor thing,” Alistair said.
Dieter didn’t think he should have liked being called a poor thing as much as he did. But the way Alistair said it, his voice full of affection and sympathy, made him melt. He sent a text message to Sandra, telling her he wasn’t going to make it to class and asking to borrow her notes before letting Alistair lead him out of the washroom.
The cafe down the street from campus was much quieter than any of the ones on campus, even quieter than the one only three doors down. The walk wasn’t long, but Dieter’s fingertips still felt numb from the cold by the time they entered. A white ferret darted past his foot. It took a barista’s call of, “No Familiars inside!” for him to realize why it was so empty.
It was a witch’s cafe. The name, Tasseography—divination by coffee grounds or tea leaves—should have been a dead giveaway.
Dieter’s eyes roamed the cafe. Behind the counter was a blue eye made of what looked like glass. There was another over the door. Paintings of desert landscapes and buildings covered the walls. It was impossible to tell by appearance alone if everyone here was a witch but it felt safe to assume they were. Alistair’s hand on the small of his back guided him to the counter. The barista’s name tag read ‘Cari, Owner’ was printed underneath in small letters. He didn’t realize it was his turn to order until Alistair nudged him. He scanned the menu but there were too many options for him to process in less than a second. The growing whining in his ear wasn’t helping.
“I’ll have what he’s having. But—uhm—one milk, three sugar.”
“You’re Bad Omen’s brother, yes?” she asked in a thick, Turkish accent as she poured their coffees.
“Bad Omen?” Dieter crinkled his nose before the realization hit him. “Yeah. How did you know?”
Bad Omen was one of Lindy’s nicknames from high school. Apparently, they were something witches were big on. They liked their anonymity, using them more as handles than nicknames from what Dieter could tell. He wondered if Alistair had one too.