~ Jaxon ~

"Just a little longer, I promise," Ava murmurs without looking up from her canvas.

She's once again talked me out of most of my clothes and into posing while she puts the finishing touches on the last of the portraits in her series. At this point she shouldn't need me at all—she has plenty of reference photos—but she insists that she 'prefers the real thing,' and that having me 'in the flesh' is what really gets her 'juices flowing.'

If I were a more expressive man, I'd have rolled my eyes and gagged at that one.

And yet, aside from her constant innuendos and thinly veiled come-ons, the arrangement I have with Ava Blackwell might be the least unpleasant part of my experience at Harbor City College so far.

Her studio-office has a peaceful atmosphere (despite the macabre décor), the large windows admit ample natural light, and I enjoy the dust-laden air, the smell of paint, the quiet scrape of the palette knife and the swish of the brush. With nothing to do while I sit for her, my mind is free to wander, and I daydream about having a place like this, someday; except that I'll be behind the easel, and Sylas will be the one laid bare to my gaze as I capture the essence of his beauty with a brush.

"When can I see them, anyway?" I ask. I've only caught glimpses of the portraits so far.

"When everyone else does," Ava returns, a self-satisfied smile curving her lips. "That's what will make it Art, Jason—with a capital A: the subject, revealed to himself as he is seen through another's eyes."

"Yeah? And what if I don't like what I see?"

The quirk of her lips grows sharper. "I think you will be pleased. And if not... Well, good art need not elicit a good reaction, as long as it elicits something."

I make a noncommittal noise in reply. She's certainly confident; I'll give her that.

She returns her attention to her work, and as she's yet to glance at me once in reference, I get up and go to the windows, the drape-cloth wrapped around me like a weird cross between a toga and a cape.

It's a clear, bright afternoon outside; the sky a brilliant azure and a fresh sea breeze keeping the late July heat at bay. It's a day to spend playing tourist somewhere—a trip to the beach, or the aquarium, maybe.

Someday soon, I promise myself; someday soon, Sylas and I will be free, and then we'll do things like that—real couple things—and I'll kiss him with the waves at our feet, or at the end of the pier at sunset, and we won't have to hide from anyone, anymore.

Lost in these thoughts, I find my eyes drawn to the small, park-like little courtyard below. Intersected by a winding, paved path, its green lawns and ornamental garden beds with bench-like borders make it a popular place for students to hang out between class. There's a little fountain at one end, and several stone picnic tables arranged beneath large, shading trees.

Ava's second-story windows have a good view, and my pulse quickens as I recognize Sylas seated at a table near the courtyard's center. Then, seeing he's not alone, I frown.

Catching the gleam of sunlight on blonde hair, I realize two things: first, his companion must be Linden Edwards, and second, Aurelio was right. Edwards is not the gangly nerd I remember from high school. Even from this distance, I can tell he's tall, handsome, and might even give Aurelio a run for his money in the fashion department.

From his fitted clothes to his bright grin and neatly trimmed hair, he stands out like a peacock in a flock of pigeons. Sylas looks especially drab in comparison, though I know this is just Aurelio's potion at work; if he were undisguised, the two would make an eye-catching pair indeed.

They're attracting enough attention as it is.

Edwards seems unaffected by the 'invisibility' spell, with his entire attention focused on Sylas. From the way he's hovering, one would hardly think they're anything so innocent as a professor and his student, and I grind my teeth as the older man reaches around Sylas to turn a page, trapping him in a half embrace. They're looking at something together—a notebook, maybe—but somehow Edwards manages to make an innocuous activity look like a public display of affection.

Sylas had explained the situation, which helps a little, but even so a sickening rage smolders in the pit of my stomach, and a thought—almost intrusively—flashes through my mind.

Sylas and his magic belong to me, and no one else.

Alarmed by the unhealthy and uncharacteristic sentiment, I frown at myself. Sylas doesn't 'belong' to anyone.

Then I startle as Ava's cool touch settles on my shoulder. I hadn't even heard her approach.

"Jason? Are you even listening to me?"

Tearing my gaze away from the window, I turn and force a smile. "Sorry. Zoned out there for a minute."

"You must be tired," she says, pouting with sympathy and trailing her hand down my upper arm as she comes to stand at my side. "We can be finished for today, if you like. What are you looking at with such stiff shoulders, anyway?" She peers past me into the courtyard below and then huffs a laugh. "Oh that."

"What do you mean?" I ask, feigning ignorance.

She nods towards Edwards and Sylas. "The 'esteemed professor' and his dear 'assistant,' of course. Linden always did have a thing for the shy, mousy ones. He could clearly do better, but he must have a weird kink, or something. Probably figures he can do what he likes with that type, and they'll die of shame rather than speak up about it."

From the frosty glint in her eyes, I get the sense I might not be the first man Ava has come on to; nor will I be the first to reject her, if she pushes things that far. I'll have to watch my step.

"Oh... I guess I did hear something about that." I rub the back of my neck, more to free my arm from her unwanted caress than for any other reason.

"Who hasn't?" she scoffs. "Honestly, they ought to fire him, but everyone knows he's got the dean in his pocket."

"Does he?"

"Hmn. Dean Forsythe's little girl was born with a heart condition. Something the Mundane doctors couldn't correct, and the physician-mages deemed it a defiance of Fate to fix. Edwards stepped in and offered to give it a shot with his barbaric little 'machines.' The dean was desperate by that point—willing to try anything—so he gave him a chance, and apparently it worked. The girl's alive, anyway, and Linden's forever sinless in the dean's eyes."

This doesn't exactly jive with what Sylas told me—about Edwards fearing he'd be fired if his work came to light, and it piques my interest.

"So... he uses his privileged position to indulge in... 'extracurricular activities' with his students, then?"

Ava shrugs, turning her back on the window and the view it offers and trailing her long-nailed fingers across my bare skin, raising goosebumps over my arm.

She probably thinks I'm turned on by it, when in fact it's a bit of the opposite at the moment. Still, it goes in my favor.

"Yes. He makes them his 'assistants,' does what he wants with them, and then—once he gets bored—he discards them like trash."

"How many 'assistants' has he had?" I ask, putting a humorous curl in my tone, so she thinks my interest is merely prurient.

"Hmm... three, now, I think? The first was a few years ago, and the second was the Spring before last. And now this one." She nods at the window.

"What happened to the others?" I ask.

If the 'student-teacher' affair is a front with Sylas, maybe it was a front with the others, too; maybe Edwards even had them doing something similar to what he's having Sylas do now. Most importantly, if I can track them down, maybe they can answer some of the other questions I have.

Ava takes a breath. "That's a good question, actually. After Linden tired of them, they dropped out of classes and withdrew from the College, and then... Well, I doubt anyone's bothered to check up on them. Edwards chooses the friendless, desperate little outcasts for a reason, no doubt."

I make a mental note to check if there are records of past 'student assistant' positions. I have a feeling if I'm going to confront Sylas with this, I'll need some solid proof if I don't want him to quit me for being an overprotective jerk.

In the meantime, I'm overcome by the need to go to him now. Maybe if I can catch his eye, if he can get away from Edwards, we can go home early, and I can reclaim what's mine.

"You know... I am a little tired," I say, offering Ava a smile. "I think I'll call it a day, if you don't mind."

"Of course." She smiles, and I suppress a shiver as I feel her trace the tattoos on my shoulders and back; only Sylas has touched them before. "I need you well-rested for the exhibition. You are, after all, my work of art."

The urge to see Sylas intensifies, like a sudden acute hunger, and I excuse myself and get dressed quickly. Jogging down the stairs to the first floor, I stride through the doors and then out into the bright sunlight.

As I approach the picnic bench, thinking merely to wave at Sylas as I pass, Edwards reaches over to touch his hair, and a bolt of pure, violent jealousy—like a shaft of poisoned ice—shocks me to the core.

It stops me in my tracks, and I take a breath, one hand pressed over the center of my chest, where the emotion registered as an almost physical pain.

I don't consider myself a jealous man. In fact, in my life as a soldier, and after, as a mercenary, I'd learned to hold things lightly—including my own life—so it wouldn't hurt so much when, inevitably, I had to let them go.

Now, however, jealousy is the only word for the feeling chewing a hole through my heart.

It's foreign and unfamiliar; almost as if it isn't mine.

Fingering the protective talisman in my pocket, I turn and look up at the windows of Ava Blackwell's corner office. If I was enchanted, I'd know it. And yet...

From this angle, the glass reflects too much of the azure sky to allow a clear view inside, but I catch a hint of movement, nonetheless, as if someone just stepped back and out of view.

An ominous new idea, like a dark-feathered bird, comes to roost in my mind.

I need to be careful.

Very careful.

Because despite what my talisman is telling me, the feeling coursing through me right now might very well not be mine.

And if it is mine, that's just as much of a problem; because as Sylas glances up and sees me watching him, I once again read fear in his eyes.

Which makes sense; I'm the guy who once told him that Spellwrights kill what they love, and at the moment there's probably a look like murder on my face.

I force the feeling down deep and lock it up tight; magically-induced or not, at least I have that much control. Then I keep my eyes on the path as I pass, just 'Jason' the Facilities guy minding his own business, as the man I love spends the afternoon with someone else.

The man I love, and who—as I am once more painfully and irrationally convinced—belongs to me, and to me alone. Everything else be damned.

Touching my talisman again, I walk on.

I need to be very careful, indeed.