Hazard

by Devon Monk

  He’d know I’d been in a fight. But he would smell the other men on me, not on Lock. So I was pretty sure he’d figure out that Lock and I hadn’t gotten into a fight.

  “What. Happened?” And those eyes, usually so clear and green, went hard as stone, dark, flashing. Duncan was no longer happy. No longer fun. He was dead fucking serious.

  “Hazard got jumped by a couple assholes,” Lock said as he pushed away from the wall and moved to go back inside. “He handled it just as I got there. But Hazard? Next time don’t hold back. Denying what you are and getting killed won’t do any of us any good either.”

  Then he disappeared into the diner leaving me standing next to my very angry best friend.

  “Could he hate everything about me any more?”

  “You got jumped?”

  “Like would it kill him to make up his mind? First he wants me to never use magic. Now he wants me to use it better?”

  “Jumped?”

  “I took a walk. Some guys wanted my wallet. Which I didn’t have on me.” I shrugged. “Lock showed up. It all turned out fine.”

  “You used magic.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I just…slowed them down. So I could get away. It worked.”

  Those eyes were still hard. The kind of eyes that would make other wolves lay down and show their belly. I wondered if he knew he was doing that.

  “You’re lying.”

  “It did work. But I fatigued pretty fast. That’s when Lock showed up. They all ran away.”

  “Jesus, Hazard. I leave you alone for two minutes.” He dragged his fingers over his head and tugged on his hair. “Need me to beat someone up for you? ’Cause I really want to punch something.”

  I squeezed his arm. “It’s over. I shouldn’t have walked off alone in a city I don’t know. Lock had my back. ‘Because we’re a team, Hazard.’” I made quotey fingers.

  We both stared at the diner as if the puzzle of Laakkonen would suddenly become clear.

  “I got nothing,” Duncan said.

  I grunted.

  “Coach says we’re loading up in five minutes.”

  “Right.” I started toward the diner.

  Duncan’s big hand landed on the back of my neck, and gave me a little shake.

  “Next time, I go with you.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  His grip tightened. “I mean it.” A lot of wolf in those words. I knew better than to argue.

  “Next time you go with me.”

  “Good.”

  The diner doors swung open and the team poured out, some laughing, but most already thumbing through their phones, getting ready for the long drive home.

  Lock looked right past me like I didn’t even exist. No surprise there.

  Twenty-One

  Wednesday at two o’clock. I leaned on a concrete planter outside Doodles. It was cloudy and cold, but at least it wasn’t raining.

  Genevieve was late.

  I checked my phone again. Nothing. Thought about texting her. Decided to wait.

  I pulled my coat tighter and people watched, trying to pick out what kind of jobs they might have, what kinds of lives they might be living.

  It was pretty easy to spot the marked. Especially the shifters. There was just something about the way they walked: cat shifters sort of extra fluid, wolf shifters with a straight spine and heightened attention to the space around them. Sensitives were harder to spot—actually impossible to spot.

  The wizards were pretty obvious. Thin to an extreme, but not in the way someone whose body has been devoured by drug abuse or illness was thin. Wizards looked like a wick about to catch fire, or a wire about to go electric. Bodies might be frail, but their stride was definite, decisive, confident.

  I wondered if anyone would pick me as a wizard out of a crowd. My body was a lot bulkier, physically stronger than most wizards. But did my stride reveal confidence? Strength?

  Those guys in Redding had spotted me, what I was.

  I took a few steps, paced one way, paced back just to test it out. I walked past some windows and watched myself in the reflection.

  All I saw was a guy walking awkwardly and staring at himself.

  Not helpful.

  “Hey, Hockey Forty-Two.”

  I grinned and turned. Genevieve’s hair was tucked up under a red beanie, so that just her bangs brushed her forehead. Her coat was mustard colored and sweatery. Then she smiled and all I could see were her eyes.

  Soft, bright, full of something happy that I wanted to explore.

  “Hey, Rock Star,” I said. “Coffee?”

  “Did you order?”

  “I was waiting for you.”

  Her nose did that crinkle thing and her dimples dipped.

  “Nice. Have you been here before?” She nodded at Doodle’s front door.

  “Once. It was good.” I closed the distance between us until the sweet scent of flowers reached me. I inhaled deeply as we entered the coffee-filled warmth of the shop to stand behind eight other people.

  Shelves on each side were filled with organic coffee, art supplies, and tea things. A community bulletin board took up prime real estate on the shelf to our right, covered in flyers and coupons and announcements.

  There was no room for chairs or tables. There was barely enough room for the people leaving the shop to get by the people standing in line.

  “How was the trip?” she asked.

  “It was okay,” I said. “Long drive.”

  “Sorry you lost.”

  “It happens. We’ll break the streak.”

  “Two is a streak?”

  “Two is the longest losing streak I want to be part of.”

  We moved to the side so a mother and a little boy could get out.

  “Why did you say yes?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “Why did you agree to meet me for coffee?”

  “You asked?”

  She looked up at me from under her bangs. “And?”

  “And I like you and want to get to know you better.”

  “Not just because I work at the testing clinic?”

  “No? Why would that matter?”

  She shrugged, but wouldn’t look at me. “Some people… I’ve had some people think they could get me to adjust their records. Grade them upward for better job ratings.”

  “People do that? Have they met you? Assistant by day and rocker by night?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “I’ve only talked to you like two and a half times and I know you wouldn’t lie at your job about something important like that.”

  “Right? Right!” she agreed. “Magical abilities aren’t something you want to over or under estimate. It’s important to get accurate data. Most wizards work really important life or death jobs. It’s crazy to put someone underqualified into one of those positions. Wizards do important things. I mean, shifters do too, and so do sensitives, but wizards are using magic to save lives.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “Most do, I guess.”

  She touched my arm, then let go just as quickly. “Not every wizard has to be a doctor, Random. Trust me, not everyone should be. I’ve tested wizard truck drivers, fishermen, actors, plumbers, and window washers. Lots of people are wizards.”

  “Sure,” I said. “But wizards with high magical ability always do important things.”

  “Not always. What’s this about? You don’t think hockey is important? You want to be a doctor?”

  I shrugged. “Hockey’s important to me…”

  “That’s what matters.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Your life. Your choices. Hockey’s what you love. Right?”

  I nodded.

  “Right. So it’s important. Plus, I can’t imagine you being a doctor. It’s just…no.”

  “Hey, I could be a doctor. Could I be a doctor? How high did I rate?” We were at the counter now.

  Genevieve gave me a puzzled look
before ordering a caramel latte with whip.

  I ordered an Americano and we shifted to one side, waiting for our drinks.

  “You don’t know?” She picked up her latte, handed me the Americano. We shuffled past the line and squeezed out of the shop. The sudden cold after the steam and heat from inside hit like a slap. I took a gulp of coffee.

  “What my ability with magic was rated? Not really.” I sat on the edge of a planter and she sat in the bright blue metal chair positioned next to it.

  “He told you. I was there when he told you. Were you even listening?”

  “I heard ‘you passed’ and then all I could think about was what an amazing assistant he had and that I loved her dimples and how her nose crinkled when she smiled, and if she’d say yes if I asked her out on a date.”

  She laughed. “You did not. He told you you passed and you went white as chalk and practically ran me over trying to get out of there.”

  “Hey. I offered you hockey tickets before I ran you over. I was going to ask you to coffee but chickened out.”

  “And…” She held up her cup. I held up mine and we clinked them in toast.

  “You really got your own tickets to Friday’s game?” I asked.

  “Turns out I like contact sports on ice. Turns out I might like the men who play contact sports on ice too.”

  “Lots of men play.”

  “Well, maybe I just like the wizards who play contact sports on ice.”

  “Not so many of those.” My heart was beating funny. Not painful. Happy.

  “Only one,” she agreed. “You really like my dimples?”

  “It’s one of the things I like about you. I was kind of hoping to see you again. Get to know some new things I’ll like about you.”

  She smiled and looked down, maybe shy, maybe just happy with that answer. Finally, she nodded. “That would be nice.”

  She still wasn’t looking at me, and I missed the brightness of her gaze. Time to change the subject away from the almost-dating we were almost-doing.

  “Tell me about the band,” I prompted.

  Her gaze flicked up. Shy Genevieve was gone, replaced by a woman energized, excited. Rocker Genevieve was in the house.

  “It’s great, right? I mean we’re still a little rough, but we’re finally pulling it together. When Chad left—he was our drummer—I thought for sure that would be the end of us, but Shashone—she’s our new drummer—is even more amazing.

  “Downpour wants us there every week. That’s our first steady gig. We’re still looking for a place to record a couple of our songs, and then we’ll have to get them out there so people can hear them, but we’re making plans. We all really want this. To make it happen.”

  God, she was gorgeous when she talked about her band. It was like all the light of the day shone out from her skin, her eyes.

  She wanted her band to succeed, and was determined to make it happen. She was looking to her future, had a plan, a goal. More than one plan and one goal. She was also working for a magic testing facility and I could tell she was passionate about that too. About making sure people used their skills in ways that would make a difference in the world.

  She was not only planning for a life ahead of her, she was living her life. Right here and right now.

  Right then and right there, with the wind cold enough to add a little red to her cheeks, and the coffee steaming in smoky curls between us, I knew I wanted to spend a lot more time with her.

  My heart beat for that. The hope that maybe she would want this. Want us.

  “Oh,” I said. That one word came out soft and low, right from the center of my chest. Not where magic begins in me, but where my heart beat.

  Was this how love began?

  I thought if I ever fell in love it would be after I left hockey, when there would be room in my life for something that big, that wonderful.

  But here she was, Genevieve unexpected, still talking like the whole world hadn’t just shifted for me. Punctuating everything she said with a wave of her hand and poke of her fingers.

  And there I was, the world fading away, nothing but this tight wire stretched between us, a path, a way of being, a possible future of going forward toward something and someone that scared crap out of me. But at the same time held me close, made me want in a way I could not turn away from.

  Because I didn’t want to turn away.

  The what-ifs flooded in like a hurricane. What if I was the only one who felt like this? What if she didn’t really like me? What if I screwed it up? What if I was wrong about her? What if this was a huge mistake? What if I didn’t feel this way tomorrow, or the tomorrow after that?

  What if this wasn’t really anything like love?

  That last one, I could answer. If it wasn’t love, it was still something good. Something strong enough that I needed to follow it, pursue it, find out what it was.

  And since I was a hockey player, I was all about leaning forward and taking the shot.

  So I leaned forward.

  Genevieve was saying something about a digital audio workstation and still waving her hand. As I leaned in, her words softened, slowed, stalled. Her eyes fixed on mine.

  “What—”

  “You’re amazing,” I breathed across her lips. I waited, long enough for her to push me away, long enough for her to say no, or turn her head, or ask me another question, or laugh me off.

  But she held very still, and the cold of the day was suddenly gone, lost beneath the heat building in that sliver of space between us.

  “Oh,” she breathed. Just “oh.” Like she had just noticed something. Like the world had suddenly shifted for her too.

  And then I kissed her.

  Gentle. Careful.

  Her lips were soft and tasted of sugar and cream and caramel and coffee. The flowery perfume lingered this near to her, as did a deep, grounding need to touch her. I held my hands steady, though, wanting this slow, wanting to know what this one step felt like.

  I didn’t want to take a step further out on this tightrope if I had gotten it wrong, if she wasn’t stepping out onto it with me.

  Genevieve did not stay still for long. Just a moment. Then her lips moved with mine, a gentle exploration as she leaned forward and placed the palm of her hand against my neck, my racing pulse caught between us.

  I wrapped one arm around her, around us, so that we would not fall.

  Twenty-Two

  Screaming. Duncan was screaming.

  Not his wolf howl. His voice, yelling like he was trying to cut through a tornado wind. Yelling for me.

  The day, which I thought had been sunny just a minute ago, had gone black in a second. Clouds erupted across the sky, dark enough to trigger the streetlights to snap on, one after another down the endless road in front of me.

  I was…outside the arena? Yes. The team should be here with me, but I couldn’t find them. We were supposed to be driving to the game in Tacoma. It had been weeks since our first game against them.

  We’d bagged our first win of the season against the tough team out of Bend, Oregon: the Brimstones, then lost the back-to-back to them the next day. We had Calgary’s Rustlers tied up until overtime, which we lost in a heartbreaking shoot out. The Brass drove down from Vancouver, Canada, and shut us down hard on our home ice. No surprise there, since the Brass were reigning champs from last year.

  But we were about to face our rivals again, the Tide.

  Where was everyone?

  A movement down the road caught my eye.

  Dozens of figures materialized out of the storm. Coming my way. Fast.

  It was the entire team of the Tide—all of them shifted, eyes burning hot, fangs flashing white—all of them running toward me.

  The raging winds hardly touched them.

  Duncan, I knew now, was at my back.

  I knew he would shift into his wolf and stand in front of me, protecting me. Saving me.

  I knew I’d watch him die. These were not odds we would win.

/>   The shifters were ten yards away. Five.

  Duncan growled and shifted, pushing past me, twice as big as I’d ever seen him, bracing between me and Tide, his teeth bared in challenge.

  They would tear him to shreds. There were too many. They would kill him.

  “Random!” Duncan yelled again. Which was weird because he couldn’t talk in wolf form.

  The shifters were here, here, here. I could smell them: heat and hatred like the alley in Redding. I could see them, muscles and claws and fur and scale.

  They were power.

  I was fear.

  They leaped.

  Death, death, death.

  Duncan yelled. Pain in his snarl, blood pouring through his fur.

  No.

  No.

  I might be fear. But I was also magic.

  I pulled it to me, all the magic in the ground, the air, the sky. All the magic in the bodies around me.

  Mine.

  Mine.

  Lightning snarled low across the sky following the paths magic carved through it to reach me.

  Magic: blue, black, burning red, crackled across buildings, twisted down lampposts, exploded along wires. Light bulbs hissed, shattered, rained down glass and embers.

  Magic: hot, an inferno, as my fury turned tornado winds into fire. Burning the flesh of Duncan’s attackers.

  A flick of my hand and raindrops became razor blades, a swift, deadly barrage slicing the Tide to ribbons.

  And still Duncan was calling.

  “Random!”

  A wall of water hit me. Ice. Shocking. So cold.

  I gasped because I hadn’t been breathing. Or had been breathing too hard.

  My eyes snapped open.

  I was not outside the arena. I was not fighting the Tide’s shifters.

  I was in my bed.

  Inhale, exhale while I grappled with this reality, this moment.

  My room was heavy with magic, so thick in the air, I could choke on the sweetness of it, the sting of it in my nostrils and eyes.

  I was also soaking wet and shivering.

  “Random?” Duncan wore a pair of pajama bottoms and a holey T-shirt. He looked really worried, his hair stuck up like he’d just gotten out of bed, the corner of his mouth caught in his teeth.