~ Sylas ~

When Jaxon had taken his shirt off, I couldn't help but stare. And not because he's hot.

He is—aesthetically speaking. He's broad-shouldered and well-muscled, and his skin is a smooth, dark olive shade. He keeps his dense brown curls shaved close around the sides and back of his head and a bit longer on top. From the curve of his back, to the breadth of his chest, to the well-defined ridges of his abs, he's a fine specimen of the male form, indeed.

But like I said, that's not what made me stare.

What made me stare was the latticework of scars marring his body—stretching across his back and diagonal over half his abdomen and chest. The worst of them have been covered with tattoos, which is the other thing that made me stare.

An enormous griffin is inked across his entire back, its wings covering his right shoulder and part of his arm. I don't know much about tattoos, but it seems to be in an Asian style, with lots of vibrant colors and shading, surrounded by swirling shapes and complex designs, and it must have taken many painful hours to complete.

Somehow it fits him perfectly, reflecting something about him that I can just glimpse beneath the surface: something passionate and wild that longs to be expressed. It also makes me wonder about him—about what sort of man he really is—to have chosen to make something beautiful from the remnants of so much pain.

Because while I don't know what kind of injury would leave scars like that, I'd guess it's not the kind you just get up and walk away from.

I'm so lost in these thoughts, I hardly hear what he says to me before he leaves, and then he's gone, and I'm alone in his apartment.

It's clean, quiet, and uncluttered. There are no electronics besides a slim laptop and some wireless speakers, and almost every surface is bare.

With Jaxon gone, the worst of my fears subsided, and my anti-anxiety meds taking effect, I'm able to take stock of things for the first time since opening my door and thinking my life was about to end:

Linus Spellwright is dead, the rest of the Spellwrights will blame me if they find out I took Griffin's Relic as my Sign, and Jaxon Spellwright—for some reason—is protecting me.

I make myself a quick promise that the next time I'm invited to a party, I'm not going—no matter how guilty Lyssa makes me feel.

For a few minutes, I just stand there, unsure what to do. Then I realize that I'm shivering. It's something that happens to me after a bad panic attack, and I guess the fear I experienced earlier is similar. It's like all the tension and anxious energy is leaving my body in physical waves. I feel cold, and a bit sick, and my shirt is almost completely damp with sweat.

Anxious sweat—especially several layers of it—does not smell great.

I decide to explore Jaxon's shower. He did tell me to make myself at home.

The bathroom is small, and as clean as the rest of the house. I have to search for the toiletries and find them neatly stored in a cabinet beneath the sink: a plain bar of soap, and a 2-in-1 men's shampoo. There's also a shaving kit, but fortunately I have no need of that: like most men of my mother's line, I've never been able to grow facial hair.

The water is wonderfully hot on my chilled skin, thawing my rigid muscles as the heat sinks deep. Few things feel better than being warm and clean—especially after being dirty and cold.

I could stand beneath the shower's hot, powerful spray for an hour, but it's not my water bill. After ten luxurious minutes, I shut it off and step out.

A single, fresh towel rests on a rack, and I grab it with a sense of guilt, dry myself off, and put everything except the towel back exactly as I'd found it. I have a feeling that Jaxon might not be the easiest person to live with.

Dressed in a soft gray shirt and comfortable jeans, I return to the main apartment.

By now, the sun has risen. Jaxon's unit seems to be on the building's northwest corner, but the large, plain windows still let in a lot of light. Like he'd said, it's not a million-dollar view—part of it is blocked by neighboring buildings—but it's not bad, either. The steel-colored waters of the harbor are visible from both angles, and even though the shoreline is part of the ugly, industrial shipping stretch, there's something calming in its distant, man-made drabness. I can imagine Jaxon standing where I'm standing now, watching ships come in from all over the world, being loaded and unloaded by the giant cranes, and then striking out to sea again.

Unsure what else to do, I explore the apartment, and find that everything is almost obsessively organized and pared down to the barest minimum of essentials.

In the kitchen, there are two pots, one pan, and just enough dishes and silverware for four people to eat at once. There's no dining table, though; just two barstools that tuck beneath the opposite side of the open counter.

The rest of the furniture is likewise limited, and it seems Jaxon is not a man who expects to entertain much company. There's a gray sofa facing one large rectangular window, and a single matching upholstered chair. Both have clean, modern lines, and looks vaguely uncomfortable.

Near the corner of the two windowless walls is a wide, king-sized bed, low to the ground, set on a solid frame with no space beneath, and covered in a black spread. Above it, a large, framed painting hangs on the wall. It consists of three wide, horizontal bars of varying shades of gray, giving a vague impression of land, sea, and sky.

The only hint of color I can find is in a framed photo on the otherwise bare bedside table. In it, Jaxon stands with his arm slung around another man, both dressed in military fatigues, broad smiles on their lips and a huge helicopter in the background. He looks a few years younger, and a lot happier than he does now.

Then again, I was younger and happier a few years ago, too, before my parents died, when my future still looked bright.

It could be bright again, I realize, now that I've found my Sign—if I can just survive whatever craziness is going on right now.

With a sprout of renewed hope, I set the picture back carefully, exactly as I'd found it, and decide to give my Sign another try. 

A further search of the apartment reveals little to write on, but eventually, I find a small, spiral-bound sketchbook with most of the pages torn out, tucked at the back of the bedside table's small drawer.

There's also no ink but, as I've discovered, my strange Sign doesn't seem to need any.

I take the pad and my pen, and sit at one of the stools at the kitchen counter.

Wetting the tip of the pen with my tongue, I set the nib to the paper, and decide on a simple, mild spell of attraction. If someone used it, it would be like wearing a little sign that said, 'Hey, notice me!' and have about the same level of effect that a nice outfit, or a new hairstyle might.

As before, a strange warmth ignites in my chest, a tingling sensation spreads from the region of my heart, down my left arm to my hand, and the pen grows warm in my grip. Another trait of the Lovecraft line is that males are almost always left-handed, which makes it nice to have a Sign that can be held on either side, like a pen.

As the nib touches the paper, silvery liquid flows from the tip in fine, even lines. I can see the spell on the paper in my mind, almost as if it's already written, and all I have to do is trace it out. It feels natural and easy, the magic flowing from my core and warming me through, and I laugh with surprised delight as I weave a spell of ink and words.

With a final flourish, I make the last stroke, and the spell is Crafted.

I study it, pleased with what I've made, and watch as the lines of my design pulse with a fierce silver light. I wonder if other Crafters can see it, or if it's only visible to me. I've never heard other Crafters say they could see their own magic, but some things are taken for granted when they're common experience.

Then I realize that the spell isn't quite complete. I missed a spot. Licking the tip again, I close the line with a sense of satisfaction.

Done.

I gasp. The tingle in my chest suddenly intensifies to the point of pain, and a rush of power flows from me and pours into the spell. I can't stop it, or catch my breath, and suddenly, I'm scared.

It's like riding a sled or a bike down a steep hill—fun until you realize you've lost control, you're going too fast, and that the only way the ride ends is with a crash.

Something within me is being drawn upon and drained—some reservoir of vital energy—my magic, or my life: one and the same thing, maybe.

An unwilling, half-strangled scream of mingled fear and pain escapes me, and then—with the abruptness of a shut-off tap—it stops. I stare at the spell, chest heaving, and then a shock of horror lights along my nerves.

My little, innocent spell of attraction has become something more, and something much, much worse.

It's a weapon.

If used, it could enslave another to the wielder's will, make the victim utterly obsessed, unable to think of anything but the master of this spell, willing to suffer, sacrifice, and die in the name of a terrible kind of love.

It's awful, and dark, and not at all like anything I'd intended to make—or would ever use.

Suddenly sick and dizzy, I know I'm about to pass out.

I get to my feet, stumble across the room, and stuff the pad back in the drawer where I'd found it. Later, I'll have to destroy the spell properly, but at the moment, I can barely stand. I collapse onto Jaxon's bed, my legs half hanging off the side, and shut my eyes. Darkness closes down, and pulls me under. I hear a roar like a river rushing in my ears, and then nothing.