~ Sylas ~

"That was Jaxon Spellwright, wasn't it?" Edwards asks. "The 'ink' to your 'quill?'"

I watch as Jaxon walks away and vanishes around the corner of a building before I answer.

"Yes, that was him."

"Surly looking fellow, isn't he?"

I make no reply and turn my attention back to the notebook, though it no longer interests me. My previous excitement has vanished, replaced by the lead-weighted lump of dread currently making a home in the pit of my stomach.

"I suppose you've told him about me by now," Edwards continues.

I answer without looking up. "Yes, I've told him."

I'm not interested in lying, and he'd know if I did, anyway.

He's quiet for a moment, and I wonder if he's displeased with me, after all; but when he finally speaks, he sounds only curious.

"He's not happy, I take it?"

"He's concerned; that's all."

At least, I hope that's all. I have a feeling I'll find out later, either way.

Edwards says nothing more, and after a minute or so, I glance up to find him watching me with a strangely intense expression. It vanishes as he flashes me a quick smile.

"Well, let's get to work, then, shall we? The sooner we finish, the sooner you can get home to him. The man looks like he could use a bit of cheering up."

Edwards rises and strolls away, his light suit jacket slung over his shoulder and his hand in his pocket.

Reluctantly, I gather my things and follow him.

✧ ✧ ✧

Thankfully, he didn't lie. The new batch of gems is smaller than the last, and most are of the types that showed the most promise in the first test. There are two or three of each kind, of different sizes and cut into different shapes.

I work through them quickly. My previous experience had taught me I needn't use much magic to know which gems would hold my power and which would not.

Most of the gems show some potential; they glow in my hand, humming with energy and pulsing with blood-hued power.

My magic, outside of myself and made visible, at once entrances and dismays me. It's like seeing my life as something tangible and finite; a resource to be used.

That's how the Spellwrights had seen it—Jaxon's mother, and Marcus, at least. Maybe it's even how Griffin Spellwright had seen my Ancestor, long ago. It's certainly how Marcus sees Lyssa, and how Linden Edwards sees me, now.

Not all that long ago, I'd never have imagined having this kind of power, or being desired for it in so many ways.

Now I'd give almost anything to be pathetic 'Signless Sylas' again.

Sighing, I watch as the glow within the last stone slowly fades, flickering like a failing heart, until at last it goes dark, extinguished.

Once again, Edwards isn't discouraged by what, to me, seems like a failure.

"We're one step closer," he proclaims when I show him my task is complete. He leans over me, massaging my shoulders absently as he surveys the gems, which I've arranged in order from least to most promising, and I struggle not to cringe beneath his touch. "One step closer to victory, you and I."

✧ ✧ ✧

That evening, Jaxon is quiet, and barely responds when I tell him about Edwards and the gems.

Increasingly desperate for any kind of acknowledgment—even if it's just of his anger—I suggest we go out and do something together: get dinner, see a movie, walk on the beach. He agrees, but remains distant and distracted the whole time.

I feel as if I might as well be alone; the man beside me, a stranger who just happens to be eating at my table or sitting in the darkened theater at my side.

When we get home, I make another overture of affection, seeking reassurance, but he shakes his head.

"That movie was damn long. I need some exercise after all that sitting."

"I hear you can get good cardio in bed," I say, attempting to flirt.

He just smiles and kisses me between the eyes. "It's still light out. I think I'll go for a run."

He leaves me feeling obnoxious and needy, and a little confused.

I'm trying to give him what he wants, but what he seems to want at the moment is space, and cursing my lack of experience with all things romantic, I find myself wishing Lyssa were here.

Although she'd probably just tell me to sleep with him.

After an evening spent studying Volodchenko's notes and Agatha's book, I fall asleep alone. Later, I'm roused by Jaxon's return, as he slips quietly between the sheets at my side.

"Jaxon?" I whisper, unable to stand the strain any longer. "Have I done something wrong?"

Silence stretches, and I wonder if he didn't hear me. Then he answers.

"No. You haven't done anything wrong."

I roll over to face him.

"Then... what is it?"

He touches the side of my face, and I can just make out the features of his in the dark.

"I'm an asshole, that's all. A stupid, jealous asshole. And... I'm scared."

"Of what?"

He doesn't answer. Instead, he raises himself on his elbows and leans to kiss me. I kiss him back, lifting myself to press against him and signal my willingness for more.

The heat of his body warms me through, chasing away the chill of my inherent insecurities, and his natural, clean scent fills my senses as I breathe. His mouth is hot and wet, and he tastes of mint, but his kiss is tender and not invasive. I'd like to feel his skin against mine; the smooth strength of his body and the safe confinement of his arms; but after a moment, he draws away and settles back at my side.

"I love you, Sylas Lovecraft," he murmurs with a last, light kiss.

"I love you, too, Jaxon," I tell him. "Only you."

He sighs, and says nothing more, but holds me tight against him until he falls asleep.

✧ ✧ ✧

Two days later, Edwards shows me his latest collection of stones.

He lays them out on a velvet cloth atop his desk, inviting me once more to sit in his chair. Trying not to look as hideously awkward as I feel, I obey and take a closer look.

The gems are of the types that have shown the most promise so far: a variety of quartz, amethyst, topaz, heliotrope, obsidian, and carnelian. A little dismayed by their number, I count them and arrive at a total of twenty-four.

"Professor... I don't think I can test all of these at once," I say, turning a piece of rose quartz over in my palm.

"Oh, never mind that," he replies, rubbing his hand between my shoulder blades as he leans over and around me to look at the assorted gems. "You needn't test them all. You should have a good sense, by now, of which holds the best potential, anyway. Just go with your instincts—test the ones that speak to you."

"All right."

He pats my shoulder and—thankfully—retreats.

"I'll keep an eye on you, as well," he says. "You're a finely tuned instrument, Sylas, like my dear little creations. Though, unlike a machine limited to the capacity allowed by its design, I believe your true potential has yet to be... tapped."

Repressing a shiver of disgust, I turn my full attention to the gems.

Edwards is right: I do have a sense, now, of which stones draw me like magnets, calling to my magic, and which seem as inert as... well, rocks.

I notice that this batch is more regular than the last, which might account for why there are so many. There are five samples of each type, each with a varying number of faces made of triangles, squares, and pentagons.

One draws my eye—a piece of obsidian that reminds me of the ridiculous dice people use to play Dungeons & Dragons—I know, because the only friend I had in high school was obsessed with that game.

We'd stopped hanging out together after my parents died; I'd been too busy for things like friends. Now I regret not trying harder to make the time for her.

Feeling suddenly nostalgic for those lost days, I pick up the dice-like obsidian and roll it back and forth on my palm. It's heavy and cold, and its many triangular surfaces catch the light like little eyes.

Calling forth my magic once again, I send a stream of it into my palm, and from there into the stone. It soaks it up like a sponge, or like a black hole drinking in light. I have a sense of the space within it as a vast, other dimension—an empty void waiting to be filled—and begin to pull back in mild alarm. Then, as if something had awakened from within it, the black stone begins to hum with power.

Surprised, I drop it and sever my connection, but the obsidian continues to glow with an impossible 'dark light' that I don't see so much as feel. I watch it for several long minutes, but it shows no sign of losing power.

"Professor."

Linden looks up from where he sits by the windows with Volodchenko's notebook open on his lap. "Hm?"

"I think I... I think I found something."

Rising quickly, he sets the notebook aside and comes to look.

"Obsidian?" He frowns, reaching for the stone and pausing with his fingers hovering just above it. He glances up at me, a slight frown on his lips. "How much magic did you channel into this, Sylas? You haven't overdone it, have you?"

Annoyed by his misplaced concern, I return his frown. "No, I haven't. I used no more than I did on the other stones. This one just seems... alive, somehow."

"It's not alive," he says, his excitement increasing as he picks it up and holds it between his finger and thumb. "But it is resonating. It seems your magic has found an affinity with this material and shape. This is quite the discovery—if it lasts."

"It's already held the magic longer than any other stone I've tried," I say, "and it hasn't lost any, as far as I can tell. In fact..."

"It seems to be emitting more power than you put into it," Edwards states, his excitement increasing. "This shape is called an 'icosahedron.' It's one of the five Platonic solids, used in sacred geometry and in high ritual magic. It has several layers of significance—trust, truth, transformation. I hadn't considered that a physical representation might have practical applications beyond—"

He stops, drawing a sharp breath with his hand pressed to his lips. Then, grasping me by the shoulders, he pulls me to my feet.

"Let's test it!" he exclaims, and crosses to the shelf of little machines.

Taking one down, he carries it to a work bench in the corner. It's littered with the implements of his Craft—magnifying lenses, drawers full of parts and pieces, and an array of strange, nameless tools. He leans over it, making whatever adjustments he needs to his invention. When he comes back, I see he's fit the obsidian into a hollow space within the little creation—which looks rather like a spider with too many legs—and fixed it in place with thin gold wires.

"I call this little fellow a 'seeker,'" he says. "It's powered by a simple 'finding' spell—you know, the sort you'd use to find your lost keys, or wallet, or whatever. Of course, with my own magic, I've never been able to get it to work very well. Now, let's see, let's see... what have I... Ah! My calipers! Now..."

Closing his eyes, he mutters a quick spell.

"I hold its image in my mind: now seek for me what I would find!"

He sets the little mechanism on the floor and steps back. It remains inert, and I feel oddly relieved that it hasn't worked.

Then, like a small creature disturbed into sudden motion, its many legs skitter to life and it darts across the floor and up the leg of the desk by which I stand.

I leap back with a barely contained cry of fright and disgust; the thing is too much like an oversized, alien invertebrate for my liking.

It slips over the side, latches onto the handle of a drawer, and tugs ineffectively with its long, delicate legs.

Linden strides across the room, transfers the horrible little mechanism to his shoulder, yanks the drawer open, rummages within, and then utters an exclamation of delight as he lifts a small pincer-like object up for me to see.

"Ah-hah! It is here! And I don't even remember when I last used it! But—"

Setting the calipers aside, he takes the machine in his hands and sets it on the desk.

Its task complete, it sits at rest, only the occasional twitch in one of its legs indicating it still hold magical potential within. Nonetheless, I see the dark stone at its core, still emitting energy like a black heart. I see it, because it contains a little bit of me—my magic, my life—and it leaves me with a queasy, hollow feeling inside, like I've lost something I'll never get back.

"Yes!" Edwards claps his hands, his face lit with triumph. "Look, Sylas, look! Do you see it? The stone's still lit! It hasn't lost anything! Why, at this rate, it could power this machine for... well, for years, potentially!"

"I see it," I admit. "But, Professor..."

I mean to tell him I don't like the result, and that I don't want to repeat the experiment, but he strides towards me, face lit with happiness, and grasps me by the shoulders once more.

"This is extraordinary," he exclaims. "You're extraordinary, Sylas. Why, you... Well, I..."

Seemingly at a loss for words, he shakes his head, takes my face in his hands, and kisses me.

I shove him away, startled and repulsed. He takes a step back, looking as shocked as I feel.

Grabbing up my things, I head for the door. He blocks my path, hands raised disarmingly.

"Wait, Sylas. Forgive me. I didn't mean anything by it—I was just a bit overcome."

I keep my voice cold and my back straight. "Excuse me, Professor, but I'd like to go now."

"Please—" He reaches for me, but stops himself. "I've always suffered from an excess of passions. When my excitement gets the better of me, I simply can't control myself. I know that's no excuse, but... Just wait a moment, won't you? I want to give you something. Something more welcome than a kiss, I promise."

Reluctantly, I nod. It doesn't change the fact he crossed a line, but he could do worse. He could turn Jaxon in to the Inquisitors. I don't want to Craft for him again, and once I leave his office I've no intention of coming back, but at least at the moment he's asking and not threatening.

He smiles. "Good. Wait here a moment."

Going to his shelves of inventions once more, he takes one down and returns with something in a little velvet pouch. As he opens it and removes what lies within, I brace myself to see another horrible little mechanical insect creature, but what he presents me with is surprisingly mundane. It looks like one of those little kaleidoscope toys that children get as party favors, except made of brass instead of cheap plastic.

"It's a 'spelloscope,'" he says. "At least, that's what I call it. Go ahead—give a try."

Taking it from his outstretched hand, I examine it. One end is narrower than the other, and assuming this is the eyepiece, I peer through it and take in the room.

Then I gasp.

Around the frames of the windows and door I see thin strands of light—writing and symbols, though indecipherable—and each of Edwards's little machines glows with a trace of his green-hued magic, some more brightly than others. Most noticeably, the strange, spider-like 'seeker' blazes with a core of my own blood-red power, like a tiny, dark star.

"It makes magic visible," Edwards explains. "Highly useful for detecting spells, especially when one's own magical 'senses' aren't as sharp as one might like. Even the most gifted Crafter can't detect every trace of Craft—especially the more subtle, passive types, or magic that hasn't been activated yet. I thought it might come in useful in your search for the Devil's Song. If Solemnity does have a secret burial chamber beneath the library, it may be hidden by a spell. If so, perhaps this will help."

Surprised and gratified, I slip the little instrument back in its velvet bag. "Thank you, Professor. I don't know what to say."

"Say you'll forgive my foolishness," he suggests, with a penitent smile. "I'm sorry I let my excitement get the better of me. You've given me something I've sought my whole life, and I simply can't express myself properly."

I nod, though I still haven't changed my mind about Crafting for him again. His kiss had made me uncomfortable, but seeing my magic trapped in his machine had felt worse.

It felt wrong.

Suppressing a shiver, I slip the little 'spelloscope' into my pack, and give him what I hope is a convincing approximation of a smile, lowering my eyes. "I understand. It just took me by surprise. Thank you for the gift, Professor... Linden."

Relieved, he gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Until next time, then. I have great plans for us, Sylas. You're going to make me a very happy man."

Feeling a little ill, I manage one more smile; and then I do what I do best, and run away.