~Sylas ~

I've gotten to know Jaxon Spellwright pretty well over the past three months.

I know which frown means he's upset, and which means his mind is merely elsewhere. I know he never sleeps in, even when he works late. I know he's got a sweet tooth, though he rarely indulges it.

And I know when he's angry, and when he's trying to hide how he really feels.

He'd been angry when I woke up—truly woke up—and found myself once again staring down at him as he fought to catch his breath, the taste of him fresh on my lips, and my body humming with raw energy.

Then he'd voiced the thought that's been eating at me since the moment I learned what it means to be bound as Ink and Quill.

I don't have a choice.

It hurt, and so, like any mature adult, I ran away and hid.

A quarter-hour later, I emerge from the shower to find Jaxon already asleep, lying on his side and facing away from me. It's nearly five a.m., which means he'll be up again in a few hours.

Knowing that sleep will not return for me, and not wanting to disturb him, I slip from the room, close the door softly behind me, and head down the narrow hallway to the kitchenette.

The rented house we share with Nic and Yumi is in a town called Covey Bend, just up the coast from Harbor City. The town is so named because it's built along a slight indentation of shoreline, not large enough to be a bay, nor deep enough to be a cove. Most of the buildings and houses are at least fifty years old.

It's a depressed little backwater hamlet and has the climate to match. Fog rolls in most mornings and at night, the sky seems always overcast, and the perpetual stink of low-tide flavors the air.

It's also a haven for Crafters on the wrong side of the law: criminals, in other words, among whose number we may now be counted.

I have no money, Jaxon's cut off from his, and Nic and Yumi have little enough to spare. Being wanted men, neither Jaxon nor I can get legitimate work and so, to make ends meet, we've turned to the underside of Crafter society—the black market of Relics and spellwork-for-hire.

Jaxon has taken up his former role as a sort of mercenary, gathering and selling information while hunting for information of his own. 

Nic and Yumi, on the other hand, aren't Crafters at all, but Gifted.  They don't have Signs and can't channel magic, but each has a unique, super-normal 'Gift.' 

Nic is an 'appraiser,' and can tell the value of a thing just by looking at it, while Yumi is an 'historian,' and can read an object's history through touch. Both skills are useful and valued at the underground auction houses, where magical artifacts, including Relics, change hands.

And then there's me.

My magic is unique and easily recognized, and every spell I craft is powerful. Jaxon says they're too dangerous to sell, even to the most trusted buyers.

Fortunately, I have another skill.

My parents were Spellbreakers, and I'd learned a lot from them—before they were murdered by Jaxon's mother, that is. Unraveling magical accidents is tedious, dangerous work, which makes it well-paid work, as well. Add to this the fact that most Crafters want to keep their embarrassing mistakes a secret, and it's the perfect job for someone who doesn't want his services—or existence—advertised.

The downside is Jaxon insists on acting as my 'agent,' and only accepts the least dangerous cases from the most trusted clients, and only when we need the cash.

Which means I'm at loose ends a lot of the time.

To keep busy, I do stuff like cook and clean, try to train Nic to take his sandy shoes off outside, and discourage Yumi from drinking directly from the cartons of milk and orange juice. Oh, and practice behind Jaxon's back to see if it's possible for me to work magic without winding up acting like a cock-starved fool (signs point to 'no.').

Most of all, I try to keep my mind off the things chewing at me from the inside—like where my sister is, and how conflicted I am about what happens every time I Craft.

Because the truth is, I'm in love with Jaxon Spellwright, and if I had a choice in the matter, I'd choose him anyway. He says the same—that however we ended up together, he's glad we did, and he doesn't care that the only time we're intimate is when I need his vital energy to replenish mine.

I just have a hard time believing him: believing that, given the chance, he'd really choose someone like me.

Especially when he looks as frustrated and unhappy as he did just now.

In the kitchen, I discover that Nic is already up, rolling out logs of homemade chocolate-chip cookie dough. He works part-time at a small bakery, and spends many of his free hours coming up with new recipes or perfecting old ones.

I envy him. Crafters can never land Mundane jobs—no matter how many applications we fill out. Not that Nic's job pays much—barely enough to cover the cost of all the ingredients he buys—but that isn't the point. He says that baking and candy-making are how he networks. I'm not sure what he means, but I guess criminals like sweets as much as anyone.

He looks up as I enter and flashes me a grin. In his early forties, bald, tall and heavy-set, Nic look like a guy who'd be at home in a scary biker bar, but he's not. Despite his size, he moves with a light, easy grace, and his voice and gestures are slightly effeminate. He has a broad, friendly face, blue eyes that sparkle when he smiles, and he's easy to talk to.

"'Morning, sunshine!" he greets me. "You're up early."

I return his smile, though mine isn't nearly so bright, and head for the coffee-maker. "Once I'm awake, I'm awake."

"Jaxi snores, doesn't he? That's one perk of a platonic partnership—nobody steals my covers, and nobody farts in my bed but me." He laughs.

He and our other housemate, Yumi, have such a relationship. They care for one another deeply, and had 'married their fortunes together,' as it were, but were not sexually or romantically involved. The house we'd taken has three bedrooms, and he and Yumi each have their own, while Jaxon and I share the largest one.

I pour myself some coffee and reflect on his words. "Do you ever want to? Have someone in your bed, I mean?" I'd never been entirely clear on either his or Yumi's orientations.

"I used to," he answers easily, rolling out another log of dough and wrapping it neatly in brown wax paper. "At least, I used to think I did. I thought I was supposed to, in other words. Truth is, that kind of relationship just isn't my thing, and neither is the casual scene. I'd much rather spend my time and energy on other things. It took a damn while, but eventually, I learned that 'alone' and 'lonely' aren't the same thing. Then I met Yumes." He finished wrapping the dough and placed the rolls in the fridge to chill. "Why'd you ask, sugar-puff?"

"No reason," I say, my face warming with embarrassment as I sip my coffee. "I didn't mean to pry."

He comes to sit at the table and leans towards me, reaching to rest his strong, flour-dusted fingers on my forearm. "Hey now, tit for tat. Spill it, sister."

I frown into the opaque depths of my coffee cup. He'll let it go if I refuse, but I've come to trust him as a friend, and despite his fluff-brain act, he's actually a level-headed guy.

I tell him, and he listens carefully.

"You're inexperienced, romantically speaking, right?" he asks, when he's up to speed on my insecurities.

"Before Jaxon, I'd never even been on a date," I admit.

"No interest?"

I shrug. "That, and given the reputation that goes with my family name, I've always worried that people would expect me to be...something I'm not."

"And so you think if has a choice, Jaxi will toss you like a stale cookie?" He shakes his head. "I've known him a long time, and I can tell you this much: That man doesn't do anything he doesn't want to do. He loves you, honeybuns, but trust is a two-way street. He's accepted what you are and what it means to be with you. Now it's your turn."

I frown. He may be right, but he's not the one carrying around the reputational baggage, or the one who'd always sworn to keep magic and love firmly separate.

Before I can think of a suitable reply, however, the front door opens and bangs shut again, and Yumi enters, dressed in black leather and carrying her motorcycle helmet under her arm.

She looks rather grim, but she always looks grim, so it's hard to tell if she's actually grimmer than usual.

"'Sup, squirt," she says, nodding at me.

"Hi, Yumi," I return, unsure whose sobriquets I prefer less.

"How'd it go?" Nic asks, getting to his feet.

"Eh, the usual." She drops onto a chair and sets her helmet on the floor. "Didn't learn much, got hit on, kicked a few asses."

Yumi has short spiky hair, is covered in tattoos, and is a few inches over five feet tall. Despite these standout-traits, she's something of a chameleon, and has a knack for blending with any crowd.

"What was it this time?" I ask. "A nightclub?"

"Art exhibition," she answers. "The artist's a Crafter. Figured I might pick up on some gossip or something."

"Did you?" Nic inquires.

"Plenty—just not much we didn't already know. Lotta speculation 'bout the Spellwrights and Lovecrafts, and the murder investigations—apparently the favorite theory is that you're the one coercing Jaxon now, Sylas. I think it was the other way around last week. Only real news is this: Marcus Spellwright's getting married."

"What!?" I sit up and knock over my coffee, sending a flood of brown liquid across the table.

Calm as ever, Yumi shifts her legs to the side so it doesn't spill on her, and Nic throws a dishtowel over it to soak it up.

"To who?" I ask, sounding a bit shrill.

"To whom," Yumi corrects. "Your sister, obviously."

"When?" I squeak. I haven't had a panic attack since I'd embraced my nature and Crafted a spell I'd expected to kill me, but I can feel one coming on now.

"Dunno the date for sure, but it sounded soon."

I push my chair back and stand, already gasping for air.

"Hey, don't get your panties in a twist yet," Yumi says, frowning. "It was only gossip."

I take an unsteady step, and Nic moves to offer me support, but his nearness just makes me feel more trapped and my heartbeat quickens.

Then a voice cuts through my suffocating distress like a knife, and lets in cool air and light.

"What's going on? Sylas?"

I turn and see Jaxon in the doorway, leaning with his hands on either side of the frame, looking barely awake and dressed in his boxers and nothing else.

His eyes go to from me to Nic.

"Get away from him!" he snarls, releasing his hold on the door-frame and lunging towards us.

Nic dances back a step and raises his hands, eyes wide.

"You got it, tiger. He's all yours."

Jaxon reaches me in a few strides and pulls me against him, smoothing his hands up and down my back as I lean into his strength.

"Sylas. You okay?" he gasps, seeming nearly as breathless as I feel.

I nod against his shoulder, unable to speak.

"He just had a little shock, Jaxi," Nic says soothingly. "He's alright. Are you?"

He sounds a little unsure, like someone trying to coax a growling dog from a cage, and I realize that Jaxon is vibrating tension.

"I'm okay, Jax. Really," I say, stepping back.

His eyes remain locked with mine, like he's searching for some other answer in their depths, and then, finally, he lets out a breath and relaxes.

He rubs his hands over his face. "I was...sleeping. Then I woke up and...felt you. Like you were calling for me. And gods, Sy; if you were on the other side of the world, I would have found you, or died trying."

"Good thing he was just in the kitchen, then," Nic observes, still looking a little wary. "So, I'm guessing this is something new?"

Jaxon shakes his head. "I've never felt anything like it before. So, what just happened?"

"Fuck if I know," Yumi says, leaning against the counter with her arms cross. I hadn't seen her get up from the table, but I do see the handle of a knife peeking from the crook of her elbow, and realize she'd been ready to defend Nic, if necessary.

Nic shoots her an exasperated look.

"Yumi buried the lede, as usual. But it seems we have a deadline now, for solving our little mystery, that is."

"What's that mean?" Jaxon asks, ever to the point.

Nic smiles. "It means we have a wedding to stop."