~ Jaxon ~

"Where did they go?"

Sylas wanders from one empty room to another, where no trace of Nic or Yumi remains.

"It's like they were never here."

"That's the point."

I follow him, watching as he trails his fingers across the empty windowsill where Nic had displayed his collection of cute little Japanese toys, and peers into the barren closets.

"Was it something I said?" he asks.

I run my hand over my hair and blow out a breath. "You know it's not. This is about me."

"Oh, the 'stabbing Nic in the hand' thing, you mean? And here I thought that went so well."

"You don't gotta tell me I fucked up, Sylas. I know," I snap.

He turns to look at me, a line between his full, shapely brows.

"Why'd you do it, then?" he asks quietly, all trace of sarcasm gone. "If you knew someone might get hurt, why'd you risk it?"

"I didn't think of it like that."

Sylas blinks at me, his dark red eyes wide and incredulous.

"You didn't think throwing a knife at someone was a risk? What if you'd been aiming for his heart? Or his throat, like you did with me? It's a little hard to ask for clarification—or forgiveness—from a dead guy."

"You think that doesn't give me nightmares?" More anger creeps into my voice than I intend—certainly more than Sylas deserves. Consciously, I soften my tone and relax my defensive stance. "Let's get some breakfast," I suggest. "We've got a lot to talk about, anyway. Might as well add this to the list."

✧ ✧ ✧

The kitchen is nearly as bare as the bedrooms (vengeance for the unfortunate meat pie, probably) so I take Sylas down the street to a café—not the one where Nic works, obviously.

We order coffees and breakfast sandwiches, and sit on the patio outside. A fresh breeze stirs the air just enough to be welcome, and the pale morning sunlight is pleasantly warm. Sylas sniffs and makes a face anyway. I know the climate here doesn't agree with him—he thinks it's perpetually gloomy and smells like fish—but I enjoy the laid-back, relaxed atmosphere.

"So," he says, once we're settled and have our food. "Since when is stabbing our friends acceptable behavior?"

I take a slow sip of coffee, arranging things in my mind.

"It's not," I say, setting the cup down carefully and keeping my tone even with equal care. "Nic and I worked together for years, often undercover, among some of the worst organized crime groups in the Crafter world. Our goal wasn't so much to bring them down or expose them, as to cause trouble from within—to disrupt my father's 'business' deals. It was a dangerous long-term operation, so we played like we were enemies; rivals, at least. That way, if one of us were ever caught, there'd be no reason to suspect a connection to the other. He'd routinely triple-check the value of any Relic I brought in, and occasionally, I'd...test his truthfulness."

Sylas dips a crust of bread in his coffee, his hand catching my eye as he does and making me itch to draw him: to capture the light and shadow, and the lines of that elegant shape. I haven't done much drawing in the past few months.

"Anyway," I go on, clearing my throat. "We had to be careful. I had to ask questions about his loyalty, and ask in such a way that he could answer without ending up with a knife through his eye. He trusted me, and I trusted him. I guess...that's how I was thinking, last night. That Nic couldn't possibly answer wrong; that my aim would never fly true against him."

Sylas frowns. "There's a difference, though," he says. "Back then, you both consented to play that game. That's where the trust came from. Last night, what you did was one-sided. You attacked him, and he didn't know you weren't just asking a question."

"I know that. And I don't blame him for putting himself and Yumi first. He was right, too. Something's been off with me. Since..."

"Since you got stuck with me, you mean," Sylas finishes, and takes a bit of sandwich without meeting my eyes.

I wait, saying nothing, until he finally looks up at me. Then I reach across the table and take his hand.

"I'm not stuck with you, Sylas," I tell him quietly. "I'm blessed with you. It's you who's stuck with me."

He swallows, his red eyes wide.

"It doesn't feel that way," he says, very softly. "But I will tell you one thing, Jaxon Spellwright: if you ever throw your Sign at me again, no matter how good you think your reasons are, I'll be gone, too."

I nod.

"Fair enough," I say, and we finish the rest of our meal in silence.

✧ ✧ ✧

There's still Aurelio's plan to discuss, however, so on the drive home, I stop at a long, curved stretch of beach popular with runners.

I've been coming here regularly for the past three months, but Sylas has only visited once or twice. Sun and wind don't agree with his complexion, and the fishy smell he dislikes is, unsurprisingly, strongest close to the water.

Still, it's such a nice morning, it seems like a good opportunity to prove that a walk on the beach doesn't always end in sunburn and sand-rash.

I park and get out, stretching my legs and back and taking in a few deep lungfuls of sea-scented air. Sylas follows, looking less than pleased with my choice of setting.

"Come on. We can talk freely here," I say, and lead the way down the short flight of weathered wooden steps to the sand below.

With a resigned sigh, Sylas follows.

As we walk towards the surf, I observe him with a careful eye. The breeze tousles the black silk of his chin-length hair and gently molds his soft gray shirt against his form. He tends to dress in monochrome to avoid attention, but his natural beauty is hard to disguise. He looks too thin, I think, and I know he's lost weight to the worries of the last few months. Hopefully, with definitive action to take and a clear goal in sight, his appetite will return.

We walk for several minutes, side by side. I enjoy the whisper of air, the lull of the waves, the cries of seabirds wheeling past. Most of all, I enjoy having the man I love at my side, and reach over to take his hand.

Thankfully, he doesn't pull away, and the shadow that's been darkening my heart since the previous night lifts a little.

Finally, I break the silence.

"Aurelio wants an answer by today," I comment. "He says he can have everything arranged by the start of summer term. He'll get us embedded at the college—jobs, identities, paperwork—everything we need to infiltrate the place. But...we can still say no," I add.

"Can we?" he asks, stepping carefully around a tangle of rotting seaweed. "As I see it, we don't have a choice. I don't, anyway. Whatever this 'Devil's Song' is, I can't just stand by and wait for Marcus to get his hand on it. Not if he intends to hurt Lyssa."

"Neither can I. But you can bet we didn't get the full picture from Aurelio. Clearing his name and restoring himself as heir is important to him, no doubt, but he could do that easily enough with all the connections he has."

"That's what I don't get," Sylas says, wrinkling his nose as we pass another pungent clump of flotsam. "If he's in so deep with the Synod, and they're aware of what Marcus is up to, why can't he get our names cleared? Why do we have to keep hiding?"

"They don't want to show their hand," I explain. "They're scared of whoever, or whatever, is standing in the shadows at Marcus' back. That's what I mean when I say we don't have the full picture, here. If we go into this, we go at least half-blind, and you can bet we're being used. We're convenient tools for a difficult job, and we're disposable. If we get caught, Aurelio is our only link to the Synod, and as long as he's still officially on the blacklist..." I shrug. "They can deny everything."

Spotting a smooth log, bone-dry and scoured clean by months at sea, Sylas lets go of my hand and sits, brushing his wind-blown hair behind his ears. I join him, settling at his side, and wait for him to speak.

He stares out at the waves, squinting a little against the brightening glare. The sun is higher in the sky, now, and he'll be wanting to head back before it reaches full strength.

At last, he speaks. "Don't they have truth-seekers, like you? Among the Inquisitors, I mean. Couldn't they prove we're not lying?"

"Magic can be meddled with, and people can be bought," I say. "Besides, I wouldn't trust myself to an Inquisitor, even if I wasn't wanted for murder. Everyone knows they're corrupt."

"Not all of them."

"Enough of them."

He falls silent, thinking. A gull flies by, low enough I hear the wind in its wings, and several runners wave a greeting as they pass, recognizing me as a regular. The beach is getting busy, but between the wind and waves, there's still not much chance we'll be overheard.

"So...if all that's true, and we both agree we don't have a choice, then what is there to talk about?" Sylas asks.

I pick at the back of my ear, knowing he won't like what I'm about to say.

"I'd just rather Aurelio left you out of it, is all. I'll go undercover at the college, and you can—"

Abruptly, he stands and starts to walk away.

"Sylas? Hey—"

He gestures for me to stay where I am.

Frowning, I resume my seat and watch as he wanders a short distance away, picks something up, and comes back carrying a long, smooth bit of driftwood.

"Let's try something, Jaxon," he says. "An experiment."

Walking slowly around the log, he traces a circle in the sand with the end of the stick, then another within that, then some symbols and lines. His lips move, and I hear the whisper of words, though I can't make out what he says.

Nervously, I glance up and down the beach. Crafting in public is borderline insane, even in Covey Bend.

He completes his unorthodox spellwork and turns my way, and I see in his face what he means to do. Right now, the lines in the sand are just that—designs scratched with a stick. His Sign—a silver dip-pen—won't do much good here, but unlike other Crafters, Sylas doesn't need it.

"Sylas..." I warn. There's no one near at the moment, but even so, it's a bad idea.

"Do you trust me, Jaxon?" he asks, meeting my eyes.

"I..." There's only one answer, of course. "Always," I say.

He nods, slowly lowers himself to his knees, and rests his palms on the sand. Then he takes a deep breath, shuts his eyes, and lets his magic flow into his spell.

The circle and symbols flare to life, glowing with the dark fire of coals, until it looks as if the seal has been burned, red-hot, into the sand.

Then Sylas rises, and looks at me.

My breath catches in my throat; his beauty strikes me through the heart. With his blood-colored eyes, pale skin, and wind-wild raven hair, he looks lovely and dangerous. Griffin called Amarias his 'dark angel,' and if Sylas bears any resemblance to his Ancestor, I understand why.

He comes back to sit at my side.

"What did you do?" I ask, a little breathlessly.

He shrugs. "Something I made up myself. A spell of...invisibility, I guess. People can still see us, of course, but they won't pay us any more attention than they would the sand, or the waves. We're just...here: seen, and then forgotten."

"How will we know if it works?"

He smiles, and the warmth in his eyes heats my blood.

"Come here." He leans towards me, tipping his head back and parting his lips invitingly. "Kiss me."

I don't need to be told twice.

Sliding a hand around the back of his neck, I pull him towards me and shiver as he presses himself close.

I kiss him lightly at first; but as he tests the seam of my lips with his tongue, enticing them to part, I give in to sweet temptation.

Desire for him floods me, rising wave on wave with the beat of my heart, answering his call. I don't even care if his spell worked—if everyone, up and down the beach, is watching the show.

His kiss carries the rush and retreat of the sea, the caress of a breeze, a feather's touch and the burn of the sun.

I can barely breathe; but in the solid warmth of his body in my arms and the taste of him on my tongue, in the blood-thrilling heat that fills my veins and the pure intensity of my devotion, I find a kind of peace.

A brief, but blissful time later, he draws away from me, leaving me weak with longing, and it feels like he's set hooks in my heart and could pull it from my chest with a smile, if he chose.

But his spell worked. I know, because another group of runners passes, very close to us, and don't spare us a glance; and even in Covey Bend, two guys eating each other's faces in the center of a flaming magic circle will draw stares.

I watch their backs as they recede down the beach, and a silver of sense returns.

"What did that prove?" I ask, wiping my mouth and beginning to feel a little annoyed. It was still a big risk he'd taken. "Except that we can make out in public now."

He looks at me, his eyes still a deep, bright red. "I trust you, Jaxon," he says, lips still flush and wet from our kiss. "Trust me, too, okay? You don't have to protect me from everything. I can protect myself. And sometimes, maybe I can even protect you, too."

I blink with surprise, and a little of the tension in me eases at his words.

He's right.

Trust goes both ways, and we're going to have to trust each other if we hope to pull of what Aurelio has planned.

"Can I kiss you again?" I ask.

"I think you'd better," he says, and smiles. "If you don't want to carry me back to the car. You know what Crafting like this does to me."

"I only know what you do to me," I say, reaching for him again.

"Oh yeah? And what's that?" he teases, his fingers in my hair and his breath on my lips.

"You make me happy."

He draws back, his expression blank with surprise, and I'm instantly afraid I said the wrong thing, somehow.

Then he leans towards me again, his hands on either side of my face, and kisses me with a gentleness that takes me off guard; with a vulnerability that makes my throat ache with unexpected emotion.

"Come on, then," he says after a moment. "Help me uncraft this thing, and then you can call your brother and tell him we're ready for college."