by A. H. Lee
“You can’t just take what you like from me,” countered Lucy. “I’m a dragon. Besides,” she continued with acid sweetness, “who used seduction to keep your fluffy tail on the mortal plane three weeks ago? That would be me. Maybe Azrael is right about you becoming more human. You’re so human, you’ve lost your touch.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” muttered Azrael as he sifted through the books on the table.
Of course Mal took the bait. “Stop cloaking for a moment, and we’ll all see if I’m losing my touch!”
“Can’t. No time to squabble with you right now. I have letters to write.”
Mal’s voice became plaintive. “Lucy, he’s a demon hunter!”
Lucy looked up sharply. “Shh! Listen.”
Mal’s ears flicked. After an instant, he said, “I don’t hear anything.”
Lucy leaned in close. “That’s the sound of me not asking you for relationship advice.”
Mal rolled his eyes. “Fuck off.”
Lucy shrugged and flipped the sheet of paper back over. “I told you I have terrible taste in men.”
Mal sounded baffled. “Then why don’t you like me?”
Lucy laughed—really laughed, her thin shoulders shaking. Azrael smiled into his pile of books. Mal heaved a sigh. “Is that why you and Ren get along so well? Because you both have terrible taste in—?”
Azrael decided this had gone on long enough. “Mal, come tell me what you think of this.”
He shuffled one of the new books out of the stack and laid it on the table in front of Mal. The volume was bound in what felt like calfskin dyed a deep, velvety blue. The cover was embossed in gold and silver—a night sky with a bright moon and stars. The letters of the title looped and curled in graceful calligraphy: Book of Dreams.
Mal examined it—first a mundane inspection, then, Azrael could tell, magically. He turned into a man, picked the book up, and turned it over. The back cover had no words, merely an elaborate ouroboros in silver and gold—a serpent eating its tail, the symbol of eternity. Mal’s gem-green eyes narrowed as he scanned for auras or energy signatures. Azrael already knew he wouldn’t find anything. Finally, Mal turned his attention to Azrael’s face, puzzled. “Is it a story? Is this our new bedtime reading?”
For answer, Azrael opened the book, and Mal looked down at it. “Ah…” he began. “I see. It’s…” He looked up and stopped.
Azrael smiled.
Mal’s expression grew puzzled. He looked down at the book again, then back up. He looked down, licked his lips and concentrated fiercely. “Well, it’s obviously…um… It’s all about…” His voice trailed off as he grew lost in whatever he was reading.
Azrael shut the book and Mal made a noise of protest. “Hey! I was just about to…to…Well, bugger all! What’s wrong with it? An encryption charm?”
“Something like that,” said Azrael. “You can read it for as long as you like, and you think you’re following along, but you can’t articulate what you’re reading, and as soon as you look away, you forget the whole thing. It’s memory magic—something simple, but elegant. I’d like to figure out how it was done.” Azrael was, himself, an expert on memory magic. He also prided himself in breaking encryption charms placed upon books.
Lucy had raised her head and was studying the book across the table. “It’s got a very faint aura.”
“Really?” Azrael frowned, pulling on Mal’s magic to take another look. “I don’t see one.”
Lucy cocked her head. “Hmm. Very faint. Maybe I’m imagining it. Anyway, that looks like a dreamcatcher.”
“That’s what I thought, too,” said Azrael. “My agent bought it at auction in Istor from another collector. Its origins are unclear. I’m assuming the previous owner did not want their dreams read, so they encrypted it. A kind of journal. Anyway, I thought I’d take a crack at it in my tower…in between preparations for our guests. After a shower and change of clothes, of course. I think I’ve still got chimera juice on this shirt.”
Chapter 7
Mal
Mal followed Azrael out through the hidden staircase that led from his apartments down into his library. The enormous, airy room seemed exceptionally cheerful today. The domed ceiling did not have skylights, but Azrael had put a spell on it recently that mimicked that effect, sending streams of diffuse sunlight between the tall bookcases.
Even the projections from the pocket worlds seemed well-behaved and peaceful. Azrael and Mal passed a young woman with an enormous sword, talking to a centaur girl. They’re not even from the same book, thought Mal. They can’t get into each other’s books now, can they? Birds were singing in the dome today. Mal was pretty sure they were also projections, but their liquid song made the library feel even more like the forest Mal always imagined—his forest, with bookcase trees and a thousand doorways to a thousand worlds, the proper home for a magical panther.
Azrael was humming under his breath, obviously lost in thought as he made his way through the meandering stacks towards his tower. Magicians liked towers because they could be insulated with a complete envelope of wards. Warded structures on the ground were trickier, because the earth beneath them had a constantly changing magical signature, especially this close to the Shattered Sea. Azrael’s tower, on the other hand, had multiple concentric bubbles of wards that concentrated his own power, kept him safe from outside interference, and protected his servants and guests from anything he might accidentally unleash. He could work more quickly in the tower, and he could manage spells he would never have attempted elsewhere. It was essentially his laboratory.
Mal was rarely invited into the tower. Azrael could draw magic from Mal’s collar at quite a distance when they were on the Shrouded Isle. He did not need Mal in the tower in order to use him, and Azrael was vulnerable when he was working major spells. He usually ordered Mal to wait by the arched entrance to the stairs. Mal stretched out there today. He wondered whether any of the people from the books would come talk to him. He wondered whether Jessica might.
Azrael hesitated beneath the arch. “You know you don’t have to stay down here.”
Mal looked up in surprise. “I always stay down here.” He could almost hear Jessica saying, “Cats hate change.” But I don’t! thought Mal. I just… “Really?”
Azrael made a come-along motion with his hand and started briskly up the steps. Those steps were one of the reasons Mal would never have a pudgy master. After an instant’s hesitation, Mal bounded up after him.
“It’s not a race!” snapped Azrael as the panther whipped around him.
“You love to race!” shot Mal.
“Only when I’m on a horse!”
“Yes, I wonder why?”
Mal was waiting smugly by the heavy, iron-banded door when Azrael arrived—not winded, because he did this all the time, but still breathing deeply, because it was a lot of stairs. Mal had carried him down those stairs not long ago with Jessica’s hand on Mal’s shoulder to keep him human. Mal had been weak and drained of magic after healing Azrael from an all but fatal injury. He’d carried him flung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
I could have held you. Unconscious. That’s the only way you would have let me back then. Why didn’t I?
Because admitting I wanted to was like opening a wound, he answered himself. I had to keep focusing on all the reasons I was angry with you. They were good reasons, so that wasn’t hard.
Mal glanced up at Azrael sidelong as he unlocked the door. You’re really going to let me in here. Azrael didn’t look conflicted about it. His pale skin was flushed with the climb, the horseback ride, the hot shower. He looked relaxed and focused on the problem in front of him. He did not look like a man about to let his summoned incubus into his private sanctuary. Then again, Azrael had his wards back in place, and Mal could see nothing beyond them.
The inside of the tower was much as Mal remembered from his handful of visits: high, narrow windows, a large desk dominating one wall, an intimidating black sword h
anging above the desk. Cabinets and work tables stood around the edges of the room, covered in books, candles, and materials for spells. There were several enormous bags of salt, iron filings, and silver scrap. The center of the room was completely bare except for a carefully chalked circle. It was etched in runes, reinforced with faint lines of old blood and salt and iron. A summoning circle.
Azrael walked straight through it on the way to his desk, but Mal skirted it out of habit. Azrael took the Book of Dreams out of his bag and laid it on the desk. He muttered over it for a few moments—spells of binding and revealing, preparation work. He leaned across the desk to fish a vial out of a drawer, then poured out a dab of oil and drew a circle around the book on the smooth wood.
Mal sat at his side, listening with half an ear, still looking around the room. He was remembering the handful of occasions over the years when Azrael had needed him here.
Azrael broke off to say, “You don’t have to be a panther, either, if you don’t want to.”
Mal almost said, “But I’m always a panther in here.” Why do I say that so often? He shot up into a man and leaned against the desk, enjoying the fact that he was now half a head taller than Azrael. He’d given himself a comfortable shirt and trousers—the sort of clothing he could easily make with magic. He didn’t bother with shoes. Mal looked at his own hands in wonder. “I was never allowed to have thumbs in here.”
“Thumbs can get you into trouble,” agreed Azrael. He’d selected a bone pen from a jar on his desk (a jar made from the skull of a carnivorous toad-owl, Mal noted) and begun to trace flowing lines of magic into the cover of the book. The volume glowed faintly in response—not a product of Azrael’s work, but a sign of resistance from the encryption spell.
Mal glanced up at the huge, black sword. “You threatened to cut my head off with that once.”
Azrael stumbled over his work. His eyes skittered up and back down again. “You asked a courtier to take off your collar. You nearly killed her.”
Mal nodded. “You made her forget.”
“Yes, I am the only person who remembers the extremely unpleasant thing you did to her face.”
“Sorry.”
Azrael said nothing.
Mal’s eyes flitted around the room. “When you made all those one-way jumps for dealing with the vampires in Solaria, you kept me up here. You made me sit in the doorway.”
“I needed your input,” agreed Azrael. “I remember you had plenty to say.”
“I remember I wanted to bend you over your desk,” muttered Mal.
Azrael’s hands kept moving over the book. He didn’t react at all. But Mal felt the tug on his magic falter.
That’s interesting. Mal leaned against the desk and gave a piratical grin. “I’m sure I said so at the time.”
“I’m sure I told you to stop talking at the time,” said Azrael, his eyes focused on the dreamcatcher. It had begun to emit a faint odor like green wood burning.
“You did,” said Mal. “And I did. Because I had to. But you can’t actually shut me up with a word anymore.”
“Can’t I?” snapped Azrael.
“Bend you over your desk on top of all those stupid books,” murmured Mal, “and make you forget everything you ever read. Show you some real memory magic. That’s what I said at the time.”
Azrael’s face was completely closed. Not the faintest flicker of emotion or desire escaped through his wards. And yet, again, Mal felt that curious stutter in the flow of magic between them. Why didn’t I notice before?
Because he would have already shut me up before, Mal answered himself.
They were standing very close, side by side. All Mal had to do was turn, and he was standing behind Azrael. He didn’t touch him, though. He just stood close enough to smell his soap, and put his fingertips on the desk on either side. Mal brought his mouth a whisker’s breadth from Azrael’s right ear and murmured, “Did you want me to? Back then?”
Azrael’s control of Mal’s magic jangled like a discordant harp string. Mal felt a rush of smug satisfaction. It wasn’t as good as being able to see his desires, but it was a lot easier than trying to read his face. As if in added confirmation, the ear Mal had just spoken into was turning pink. Azrael’s voice came out an octave lower than usual and a little hoarse. “Mal, I am trying to work.”
“I know,” purred Mal. “You should definitely keep working. You have a lot do.”
Azrael stopped and put down the bone pen, spreading his fingers on the desk with a put-upon air. “I asked you up here because I could use your opinion about a containment spell for our visitors and their hangers-on. I never intended to host other magicians on my island. Nothing on my estate is set up for it. The sorcerers may bring demons. Lady S certainly will.”
He was talking faster and faster. Mal didn’t interrupt, didn’t move closer, didn’t touch him. “I can’t just strip them of magic; they’ll regard that as a threat. We need some kind of magical airlock that will allow us to identify dangerous cross-effects and deal with them in a controlled environment. I might need you to simulate outside magic—something very different from mine so we could test it. Do you think you could do that?”
“Yes,” drawled Mal, his voice an unhurried counterpoint to Azrael’s tumble of words. “But you haven’t answered my question.” I backed you up against this desk the last time we were up here and kissed you against your will. I shredded your wards, and that was the closest I’ve ever come to assaulting someone. I won’t do that again.
Azrael retrieved his pen with a noise of exasperation. The book under his hands was still glowing faintly, still emitting an odor. He opened it and began sinking magic directly into the pages. The book began to smoke. “If you are going to do something,” he said between gritted teeth, “do it. Otherwise, stop breathing down my neck.”
Mal considered this. “No.” He relished the word. He’d so rarely gotten to use it. “Answer the question.”
Azrael swallowed. “Yes.” He spoke like a man admitting to murder. “Happy?”
“Oh, I’ve been happy for weeks.” Mal put his hands on Azrael’s hips, eliciting a gratifying intake of a breath. He continued in an unhurried purr. “Do you still want me to?”
“Mal, look at where we are.”
“I know. It’s dreadfully transgressive.” Mal’s right hand drifted from Azrael’s hip and slid between two buttons of his shirt. Of course Azrael was wearing an undershirt, but at least it was thin. Mal traced his naval through the warm fabric. “Take your time. Think about it. And then tell me.” He spoke now with his lips pressed against Azrael’s burning ear.
“Mal,” Azrael had given up all efforts to control his voice, “I am in the middle of this. If I stop now, the enchantment will destroy the book.”
“I know.” Mal kissed his ear, ran his tongue around the rim. The thread of magic between them wobbled and jerked in a way that Mal found intoxicating. But he could see that Azrael was starting to sweat.
“It’s not like you’re doing something very important,” said Mal in a normal voice. “It’s just a dreamcatcher. Only I’m sort of enjoying the challenge. How is this different from racing?”
He felt the tension in Azrael’s neck ease. You need to be reminded you can step outside the game. You forget if I don’t tell you.
Azrael swallowed. “Alright. Challenge accepted. Just don’t take down my wards here.”
“I won’t. But if you will not let me see what you need, you are going to have to answer questions.”
Azrael grunted and returned the whole of his attention to the book. The flow of magic between them steadied. Mal buried his face against the side of Azrael’s neck and brought one hand up over his thumping heart. The man smelled of soap and very faintly of horse. His hair was damp. Mal hadn’t thought, at first, that he liked Azrael’s hair short. Azrael had worn it shoulder-length most of his life—fine and straight and ink black. He’d cut it close after Mal left. That’s how he’d turned up in the Provinces when he’
d come looking for them. “Cats hate change,” Mal heard Jessica say again in his head.
Bollocks. There were some nice things about short hair—namely that Mal could see more of Azrael’s sinewy neck and pale throat, pretty as a girl’s.
Azrael’s heart was hammering under Mal’s palm, the blood beating under Mal’s tongue, but the tug of magic didn’t falter. If anything, Azrael pulled harder. Now he knows it’s a game. And he hates to lose.
Azrael’s chest was rising and falling rapidly, but he didn’t make a sound. Mal nuzzled into the sensitive skin under his jaw, kissing and sucking.
Azrael finally made a noise so low it might have been inaudible, except that Mal had his lips against the warm throat. He felt the sound vibrate over his skin. He growled and pulled Azrael tighter against him. Azrael responded by pulling harder on Mal’s magic. The book’s green-leaf-burning odor strengthened as its encryption spell continued to resist Azrael’s assault.
Mal’s fingers flipped shirt buttons. He untucked Azrael’s undershirt and slid a hand against bare skin. Azrael hissed between his teeth.
“You’re being awfully aggressive with that thing,” murmured Mal, his fingers trailing delicately over Azrael’s chest. “If you don’t employ a little more finesse, you’ll burn it up before you break it.”
Azrael said nothing. He didn’t whimper when Mal’s thumb brushed across a nipple, although he stopped breathing for a moment. Mal knew that Azrael could shut out the world. His life had been full of situations that required absolute focus for complex tasks while under intense pressure. Azrael could shut out the world. But he can’t shut out me—not completely. Because he’s using my magic.
Mal was sure Azrael could feel his erection pressing against his ass. You could tell me to get away from you. I would. But you don’t actually want me to.
He looked down at Azrael’s hands, at his long, delicate fingers around the bone pen, tracing runes with fierce attention. He was pulling a lot of magic from the collar. Mal wondered whether the dreamcatcher really was that well-encrypted or whether Azrael was just too distracted to work efficiently.