~ Sylas ~

I wake feeling stiff and sore, and for a moment I can't remember why.

Then it comes back to me: I'm an idiot who took the wrong bus, got stranded without enough money for another ride, and walked ten miles home.

I sit up, press my palm into eyes and release my breath with a quiet groan of mild self-hatred. Once I've blinked the stars and blotches from my vision, I look at the man still sleeping at my side.

'Take the bus,' Jaxon had said.

Simple.

I'd checked the schedules, bought a pass, and boarded the bus for Sweetwater–Covey Bend.

I'd ridden the city buses every day for years, not owning a car, but I'd never taken the more remote routes. That said, I only realized my mistake when the driver pulled to a stop in Sweetwater and announced the end of the line.

'What about Covey Bend?' I'd asked.

'Used to go all the way,' the driver told me. ''Til the city decided the extra twenty miles round trip wasn't worth the one stop. There's a shuttle, though. Ask at the office.'

I'd asked.

'Sorry, hun. Last one left at five,' the ticket woman told me.

I'd just missed it.

'What about a taxi?' I'd asked, counting the change left in my wallet. I had $9.04.

$15-$20 was the rate for ten miles out here, she informed me. The taxis weren't local.

'You got a phone?' she'd asked, eyeing me with suspicion. Given my clueless questions, my backpack, my drab clothes and possibly underaged appearance, she probably pegged me for a runaway. 'Call a ride. Or a friend.'

That's what a normal person would do. Unfortunately, I had no way to pay for a ride through an app, and no friends to call.

I only had Jaxon.

I'd thanked the ticket lady, and set off along the winding rural highway towards home before she called the cops out of concern.

A few miles in, the blisters rapidly forming on my heels wore away the last of my pride, and convinced me to call Jaxon.

He hadn't picked up.

And that's when it really hit me—how alone I was, and how dependent on him.

Without Jaxon, I had nothing but the clothes on my body and the money in my pocket, which was barely enough for one crappy meal. Barely.

And if he left me...

Drawn back to the present, I study Jaxon a moment where he lies at my side, and the ache in my heart eases a little. At least, out of all the people I might have ended up reliant on, I got the very best: more than I could ask for.

It's not his fault I couldn't handle the simple task of getting myself home. He'd trusted I was capable. So much so, in fact, that when I'd attempted my half-sober, half-laughing confession, he hadn't even entertained the possibility I was telling the truth about Edwards and Aurelio.

I had to do better; I owed it to him.

Shifting to lie spooned against his back, I smooth my hand over the firm, round rise of his shoulder, down his sloping flank to the dip of his waist, and over the crest of his hip. I study the swirling pattern of his tattoos, the intersecting lines of his scars, and the tiny curls of hair on the back of his neck. Pressing my lips to his bare shoulder, I breathe in his warmth and the scent of skin, and shut my eyes.

He's all I've got, but he's more than enough.

Stirred by my touch, he awakens, and rolls over to face me, squinting through sleep-bleared eyes.

"'Morning, beautiful," he murmurs, reaching to stroke the side of my face. "You okay?"

"Yeah. It was just a walk."

"I'm sorry anyway. I'm gonna put some money on some of those pre-paid card things, so you can pay for stuff with your phone. I'm sorry I hadn't before."

"Stop apologizing," I whisper, and lean close to kiss him. "You were busy. What was that lead you got, anyway?"

"Oh, yeah." He sits up with a sigh, brushing a hand over his short hair. "It might be nothing. A professor wants me to do some work for her, on the side. She's a Crafter and has...interesting tastes. I wanna sound her out, see what she knows."

"She, hmm?" I tease, sitting up at his back and sliding my arms around his chest. "Should I be worried?"

He turns, cups the back of my neck and kisses me again—just a light brush of lips, but with a sweet sincerity that goes straight to my heart. "Never," he says.

Up close, I see all the details that only a lover notices: the flecks of green and gold in his eyes, the razor thin scar bisecting his left brow, the way his eyelids crease and the tiny flaws in his warm brown skin.

"Actually... I have something similar," I begin. "One of my professors... wants me to work for him."

Jaxon's gaze sharpens, growing keen with interest.

"Work for him? How?"

"A... research assistant," I say, which is pretty much the truth.

"Why you? I mean, why's he want your help, specifically?"

"I—"

I realize I can't reveal this without revealing everything—that Linden Edwards wants my help because he knows exactly who I am, and what I'm capable of, and that I only agreed because he threatened me.

"He asked; I volunteered."

The lie slips out before my brain catches up with my mouth, and I bite the inside of my cheek, willing myself not to blush or stammer, or break out in sweat.

Jaxon's eyes narrow. "Which professor?"

I hesitate, but tell him. "Linden Edwards."

To my surprise, he relaxes. "Oh, the gadget nerd? What's he want?"

"Help with his inventions." True enough.

"Huh. Well, be careful anyway; he might be a nut, but he's still a Crafter. He and Aurelio used to run in the same crowd, I think."

"Oh."

I swallow. So far, so good.

"There's one other thing," I go on, suppressing the urge to fidget. "He... He might ask me to Craft for him, now and then—-some minor spells, I think. I won't use my real Sign, of course, but, um..."

Jaxon watches me, a frown dipping the corners of his mouth, but when he speaks, he surprises me again.

"You think you can handle it?"

I nod, and repeat myself. "Minor spells, I think. It's just... I might come home a little tired, if you know what I mean."

"Yeah? Are you a little tired now?" His lips quirk in a teasing smile.

"Yeah," I answer, and smile back at him. "I might be."

He sets his hand to my chest and pushes, gently forcing me down. "Guess we'd better stay in bed a while, then," he says, moving to lean over me and sliding a knee between my thighs. "Rest up."

I loop my arms around his neck. "I don't know if I'm that tired."

"Hmm, me either." He smiles, and kisses me; and I let him do as he likes.

Because I want to. Because I love him. And because I'm scared.

And I'll tell him the rest—I promise myself I will; I'll tell him everything.

Just not yet.

✧ ✧ ✧

But the weekend passes, and Monday morning arrives, and I still haven't gotten around to coming clean. For one thing, Jaxon seems unusually distracted. He spends most of Saturday on his phone or computer, and most of Sunday absorbed with his sketch book. He hasn't drawn much in a long time, and I don't want to break his mood, so I let him be.

And then it's Monday morning again, and he's dropping me off at the coffee shop a few blocks from the college grounds.

"Call me if you need anything," he tells me. "I'll answer. Promise. You got your cash card?"

I roll my eyes jokingly. "Yes, mom."

"Hey, you make me worry."

I lean across the seat and kiss him. "I know. Sorry."

After I get out and he drives off, I sigh and let my shoulders droop.

He'd bought us each one of those pre-loaded cash gift cards, $500 each, so we can pay for things anonymously over the internet—like rides. I was immensely grateful, of course, but not entirely comfortable. It was his money; money he'd set aside for situations exactly like the one we were in, and there was plenty of it, he assured me—but his money, nonetheless. We might be bound as Ink and Quill, and more mundanely as lovers, or boyfriends, or whatever we were, but it's not like we were married, or anything. And if we were, I'd still want to contribute something— even if it wasn't money.

Maybe that's why I held back from telling him everything about Edwards; I want to do this alone—get myself out of trouble, for once, and maybe get us both closer to solving our larger problem at the same time.

And I'll tell Jaxon everything from here on—I promise myself I will—and maybe I can slip the rest of the truth in as I go.

Even as I think it, I laugh at the thought.

Oh, by the way, Jaxon—Professor Edwards knows our identities and might be blackmailing me. Forgot to mention that part. Oops.

Right.

I sigh and walk on towards the school.

✧ ✧ ✧

"Sylas—you're early!" Professor Edwards greets me at the door of his office with cheerful enthusiasm, as if he's pleased and surprised to see me; as if I'd just happened to drop by to see him, and had any choice in the matter. "Come in!"

"Professor."

I enter and set my pack by the wall. He sighs and his smile dims a few watts with friendly disappointment at my refusal to call him by his first name.

All through his lecture that morning, he'd kept looking at me, as if he were speaking directly to me, specifically. It felt so blatant I was certain the other students would notice, and eventually I'd kept my head down and focused on taking notes.

At the end of class, he'd come around while I was packing away my books, leaned close, rested his hand on my lower back, and whispered (not very quietly) near my ear.

I'll see you later. Three o'clock.

Now, he waits until a colleague walking past his open door looks in and sees me before he shuts and locks it.

It's like he's trying to start a rumor.

"So, ready to begin?" he asks, actually rubbing his hands together with what can only be described as 'glee.'

I've never seen anyone really do that before, and it's kind of creepy.

"Um... I guess. What are we doing, anyway?"

"Come and see."

He beckons and leads me over to his large, antique desk. Today, the little machines have been cleared away, and in their place are rows and rows of various gemstones, arranged on a black velvet cloth. Some are polished, some are rough, while others are cut into geometrically precise shapes.

"What are these?"

"Gemstones," he says, which I already knew. "I've been collecting samples like these for years, searching for the perfect one."

"Perfect one?"

"Yes—the perfect combination: composition, shape, color—whatever it is that will allow me to store magic like energy in a battery. Crystals—quartz, specifically—are a wonderful conductors of energy, and can even produce it, under pressure—but storing and using it is another matter. A perpetual problem. Entropy, you know—or whatever the magical equivalent might be."

He waves his hand.

I hope I don't look as confused as I feel.

He sighs. "Sorry. I've been trying for years to get the Crafter 'academy' to take a more scientific approach to things, but... Well, you know how it is."

I don't, really, but I nod anyway.

"In short, my goal is to discover the secret to storing magic in crystal 'batteries,' which can be used to power Craft-driven machines like mine, allowing anyone in possession of the 'technology' to use it. Crafter or Mundane alike."

My eyes widen as I understand the implication of what he's saying.

"But that's..."

"Blasphemy?" he supplies, and laughs.

I was going to say 'impossible,' but he's close enough. It might not be something I care about, but plenty of powerful Crafters would (and have) killed to keep magic out of the 'wrong' hands.

Hands not born to wield a Sign, in other words.

"You understand now, don't you?" he asks, reading my expression. "Why you're the one I need. Your magic is...universal. If I can discover out how to store it, I can discover how to store any magic, using yours as a template."

I eye the crystals suspiciously. "So... what exactly do you want me to do?"

"Just channel a bit of magic into each of these—as if you're using it as a Sign. I'll do the rest."

He pulls out his high-backed executive-style chair for me.

I shrug and obey. The leather cushion hisses softly beneath me as I sit.

Taking a breath, I study the array of gems.

Honestly, this doesn't sound so bad. It probably won't work anyway.

I scan the gemstones and decide to follow Edwards' example, and adopt a scientific approach. I reach for the topmost crystal, in the upper left corner of the grid-like rows.

Edwards laughs with schoolboy delight and gives my shoulders a cringe-inducing squeeze, leaning low so I feel his breath on my ear.

"Let the revolution begin," he says.