~ Sylas ~

I stare at the man in the bathroom mirror. He's got mousy brown hair, brown eyes behind a pair of unfashionable glasses, and wears a faded brown shirt that lessens the contrast of his pale skin. I smile, and he smiles, and I finally convince myself that I am, indeed, looking at myself.

Jaxon appears at my back and nods approvingly.

"Looks good. Did you take the tincture yet?"

"Yep. Half hour ago. Can you tell?"

He squints at my reflection and shrugs. "Nope. Must not work on me." Sliding his hands around my waist, he leans against my back and kisses the side of my neck. "You're still beautiful, in my eyes."

My reflection and I share a look, but I twist around and give Jaxon a smile.

"You, too," I say, running my hands over his hair, which is a little longer now, and over the rough prickles of his two-week's growth of beard.

His grasp on me tightens, and he presses me against the sink at my back.

Tilting my head, I invite him to kiss me. Carefully, he slides the glasses from my face and sets them aside before touching his lips to mine. He tastes like mint.

As I yield to him, he makes a low noise in his throat, like a satisfied lion over prey, and he slides his hands from my waist down to my hips.

Gently, I push him away, breaking our kiss.

"Jaxon. Enough. We have to leave soon."

He goes still, but rather than release me, he tightens his grip.

"Have you been Crafting again?" he asks, his voice breathy and deep, and a little accusatory.

"What?" I blink in surprise, leaning away and treating him to a frown. "No. Of course I haven't."

His eyes search mine. "Then why do I want you right now?"

My frown deepens. "Maybe you should tell me."

"Oh, that's right," he murmurs, and winks cheekily. "It's 'cause I'm in love with you."

"Jaxon," I sigh, but laugh at the same time. "We really need to go, or I'll be late for class. You can try to get in my pants later."

"Is that a promise?"

"Tell you what," I say, putting my fake glasses back on, "behave yourself, and maybe tonight I'll Craft you something to help you sleep."

He gives me a final squeeze and lets me go.

"I don't think you'll need magic for that," he says solemnly, and presses one last, gentle kiss to my lips.

✧ ✧ ✧

In truth, moments of levity like this are rare. Jaxon's playfulness—such as it is—has all but vanished in the week since our last meeting with Aurelio. Most of the time he broods, radiating tension and worry, which does little to ease my anxiety.

On the drive into the city that morning, he grips the wheel so hard I'm worried he might rip it from the steering column.

"Maybe you should take one of Aurelio's drops," I suggest, only half-jokingly. Whatever other magics he'd laced it with, Aurelio's tincture of chamomile and passion flower really did seem to give me a sense of calm.

"Nah. Nerves give me an edge," he says. "Keep me alert."

"Okay." I shrug. "But you look like you're about to snap. Maybe not the best impression for your first day at a new job."

He glances over at me but eases his grip on the wheel.

We drive in silence for a minute, and I gather my thoughts.

I know Jaxon is unhappy. He likes nothing about this plan, though not because it's no good. It is good, and it's all we've got. He just hates the fact his brother came up with it, and that Aurelio is calling the shots.

But his worries go beyond that.

"You think he's still mad?" I ask as we drive across Harbor City Bridge.

He doesn't answer for a moment, though I know he knows who I'm talking about.

"Nic doesn't do mad," he says at last. "And if he did, he wouldn't stay that way. Can't hold a grudge for shit. Yumi can—to the grave and beyond—but not Nic."

"So...maybe she's still mad," I suggest.

Jaxon shakes his head. "I'm sure she is. But she wouldn't stop Nic from contacting me, if he wanted to."

"You said they're the best," I remind him. "If they've disappeared, they must have a reason, right?"

"Yeah," he sighs. "That's what's bothering me. It's not just us, Sylas. No one's heard from them in two weeks. Even the café says Nic hasn't been in or answered calls since the day he and Yumi disappeared. Whatever the reason, whatever happened, it's more than the mistakes I've made. Nic doesn't scare easily, and he doesn't abandon baked goods for nothing."

"So, what then?"

"If I knew, I wouldn't worry, would I?" he returns.

✧ ✧ ✧

He drops me a block from campus, then drives on towards the staff parking area alone. Meanwhile, I walk the rest of the way on foot, consulting a printed paper map as I search for my first class.

Philosophy of Craft is in a large building called Carver Hall. It's a massive auditorium, but it's almost empty at the moment, with only about a dozen other people grouped near the front. There aren't as many Crafters as there are Mundane students, I recall, so Crafter classes run small.

Everyone is grouped in the middle section of seats, in the first five rows, and I sit at the end of the fifth, a little apart. Some students are chatting quietly, some are sitting in silence, and some play with laptops or phones. No one glances at me twice.

Or once, even.

It seems Aurelio's potion works well.

A few more students straggle in, and one late-comer settles at my side, which is a little annoying given the plethora of other vacant seats.

The professor has yet to appear.

At five minutes past the hour, the class grows restless, checking phones or watches against the time shown by the big clock on the wall. I double-check my schedule and map, but it seems I'm in the right place at the right time.

After a few more minutes pass, I turn to the person at my side. He has stylish blond hair, a trim physique, is neatly but casually dressed, and looks older than the other students here—maybe Jaxon's age, or into his thirties, even.

Giving in to my anxious thoughts, I lean towards him. "This is Philosophy of Craft, right?" I ask.

He doesn't seem to hear me, and I wonder if Aurelio's potion might work a bit too well.

"Excuse me," I try again, tentatively touching his arm. "But is this Philosophy of Craft?"

"Shouldn't you know?" he returns, without raising his eyes from his notes.

Chastened by the rude reply, I give up and sit back in my seat, resolving never to speak with anyone ever again. Ever.

After a moment, though, my neighbor caps his pen and closes his notebook, and then, in a loud enough voice for everyone to hear, he addresses me.

"Why can't magic solve all our problems?" he asks. "That's a more interesting question, I think. Do you know the answer?"

He twists in his seat and fixes me with a sharp, green-eyed stare.

"I... N-no," I reply, even as I catch on to the fact that he might not be a student at all. "I d-don't."

He holds my gaze, almost daring me to look away, and nervous sweat prickles my chest and back.

"What's your name?" he asks.

"S-Sylas," I stammer, glad that Aurelio let me keep that part. Jaxon is going by 'Jason Smith,' but he isn't as likely to forget his alias the first time someone asks.

"Sylas," he repeats. "Sylas what?"

I swallow, my heart beating hard and fast, as I wonder if, whoever he is, he's caught me already.

"Sylas West," I whisper.

He continues to stare for a moment. Then, abruptly, he turns, flips to the back of his notebook where a sheet of paper with a list of names is taped, runs his pen nearly to the bottom, and makes a neat little check inside a box.

Then he calls out other names, starting with Jamie Aarons, and ending with the only one lower than mine—Xuan Yang—and making similar checks besides each as he receives a reply.

I've relaxed by the time he finishes, having concluded that he is, in fact, the course instructor, until he turns his green gaze back on me.

"So, now that you've had time to think about it, I'll ask again: why can't magic solve all our woes?"

My brain scrambles for an answer even as my throat constricts, threatening to choke the nervous life from me.

I'd always loved school, but I'd forgotten this part; how anxious it made me.

"I... I don't know, sir," I gasp at last, unable to come up with an intelligent answer on the spot.

To my relief, he nods, rises, and walks to the front of the class.

"That's a fine answer, for today, Mr. West," he says, addressing the room, "but I hope you can come up with a better argument by the time midterm papers are due, because that is one of the questions we will explore in this course. My name is Professor Linden Edwards and, as I'm sure you've all figured out by now—" He pauses and throws a wink my way, "—this is Philosophy of Craft."

✧ ✧ ✧

For the next hour and a half, I sit and listen. Thankfully, after my initial embarrassment, Professor Edwards leaves me alone. I already feel like I can barely keep up, and all he's done so far is go over the syllabus.

The scope of the class is broad, the books sound expensive (though Aurelio has already paid for mine), the reading looks daunting, and the schedule of assignments and quizzes has me damp with nervous sweat. At least everyone but the professor ignores me, and I don't have to deal with extra social anxiety on top of everything else.

At the end of class, Edwards invites us to drop by his office hours, and I make a note of them on my phone, though the thought of having his undivided attention again makes me uncomfortable. It's almost like he'd seen right through me—like Aurelio's potion didn't work on him.

My next two classes are no less intimidating.

Mediaeval Magic is taught by Professor Yuri Volodchenko, a short, stout man with a strong accent and a monotone voice that makes him difficult to understand, while Indigenous Magic in Media is taught by Professor Yenene Coldweather, a tall, athletic woman with short black hair and eyes that sparkle with hidden humor.

Both classes promise challenges, and by the end of the day, the only thing I'm sure of is that I won't have to pretend to need help when I go to office hours.

Coldweather's are right after her class ends, so I decide to try her first.

Most of the Crafter faculty have offices in a large, cathedral-like building near the center of campus. With ornately carved marble pillars, arches, lintels, rose windows, and even a pair of towers at the back, its oddly Gothic architecture makes it stand out from its more modern neighbors. Maybe the solemn grandeur is meant to signify the difference—or the importance—of what it houses. Probably both.

Coldweather's office is on the second floor, and with the term just started, I'm the only one waiting at her door.

When she calls me in, I explain nervously about being a transfer student, and how I'm worried that I'm behind, and ask if there's any extra reading she thinks I ought to do.

She listens with patience, but little interest, and writes out a list of books and articles for me to check out at the library, and sends me on my way.

I'm walking along the hall on my way from her office, staring down at the note she'd given me and trying to decipher her handwriting, when something collides with me and knocks me to the ground, where I'm promptly showered by an avalanche of loose papers.

"Fucking shit," someone swears. "Why don't you watch where you're going, idiot? Now look what you've...done."

I blink up and see Professor Linden Edwards frowning down at me, a little crease between his fair brows.

"Oh, it's you. West, wasn't it?" he asks, extending his hand and helping me to my feet.

"Y-Yes. I'm so sorry, Professor, I wasn't paying attention."

"Obviously. You're all right, though?"

I nod.

"Good. Help me pick this up, then. Damned mess."

He bends and begins collecting the papers and, not knowing what else to do, I kneel obediently and help him. As I gather the sheets, I can't help noticing that they seem to be photocopies from some kind of manuscript, written in letters I don't recognize.

"Is that, um... Is this a book of spells?" I ask lamely.

He fixes me with that stare again.

"Help me carry this shit to my office," he says, "and I'll tell you, if you want. Clearly I could use the assistance."

I notice his demeanor is far less professorial outside the classroom—almost like he's dropped a stage persona and this is the actor beneath: a little rough around the edges, gruffer, and a lot more human.

"Y-yes. I mean, sure. I don't mind," I agree, and follow him up to the next floor.

He shows me into his office, and with a thrill of childlike excitement, I see it's in one of the cylindrical corner structures, shaped like a circle with one flattened side—a real wizard's tower.

And it's full of strange things: ancient books in glass cases, mysterious implements and artifacts, the skeleton of a cat and of several other animals I can't identify, and numerous exotic-looking plants. Charming models of fanciful Leonardesque machines hang from the ceiling, and paintings of mythological scenes adorn the walls.

Lost in admiration, I startle at the sharp click of the door falling shut.

"Just put it on the desk. Anywhere's fine," Edwards says, and demonstrates by crossing the room and dumping his armload of papers atop several similar piles—beneath which, I assume, is a desk.

I follow him, noting with fascination that several tiny machines sit in the only clear space. They're similar to those that hang above, but have moving parts, which whir and flicker, and chirp softly, like tiny happy birds.

They're obviously magical, though I've no clue what their purpose might be, and I've never seen anything like them before.

"Who are you?" I ask, entranced by the outré little creations, which appear handmade.

After a moment, I realize he hasn't answered, and look up to find him watching me with his arms crossed, one hip leaned against his overburdened desk, and one pale brow raised.

"As a matter of fact," he says, "that's what I've been wanting to ask you, Mr. West."