Chapter Seventeen
Ethan
Sometime later, after his cup of coffee had grown stone cold and he’d exhausted the section on ghosts in his books on the topic, Ethan threw one of the tomes down in disgust, hands fisted in frustration. As far as any of these writers were concerned he shouldn’t have been able to see spirits, and yet…
While he stared sullenly at Ali’s ghost, smirking at him from the opposite chair, one leg flung up over the arm as she lounged insouciantly, refusing to go away, he felt that tell-tale tingle of his magic gathering strength. He needed something about how to get rid of apparitions that was stronger than burning sage around the house. He tried to envision the sort of spell he might use to banish Ali from existence, shocked when something whacked him in the chest. Ethan stared down at a crumbling journal bound in stained brown leather and tried not to freak out.
On the other side of the living room, one stack of his mother’s books had toppled onto the carpet, the top ripped off one of the bottom boxes and its contents spilled in a trail towards him.
“Whoa.”
Patrick
He came home early that night after making a plan to meet up with Mallory and Vector later. Vector had narrowed down a couple of club locations where he’d detected hints of vampire activity for them to check out, which should be simpler to do when they were open and the management had to—presumably—be around for questioning. Pat had a couple of hours to eat, check on his own wayward human, and clean up before driving downtown.
He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to find as he stepped inside, stripping off his damp coat and boots, but it wasn’t…this. The living room looked like a library had exploded everywhere, and while he could hear Ethan’s heart thudding calmly from nearby, he wasn’t actually visible. Something cold and uneasy curdled in Pat’s gut.
“Ethan?”
The messy tow-headed mage popped up from behind a tipsy stack of empty cardboard boxes.
“Oh, hey. How late is it?”
“I don’t know. Five-ish.”
Ethan frowned at him. “What’s up?”
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“Working.”
“Same.”
The other man’s expression twisted into a little sneer as he parroted, Same back at Pat and struggled to his feet, trying not to disrupt the chaos.
Pat felt frozen between disquiet and relief. It was something to see Ethan doing anything other than sleeping in the middle of the day or lying on the sofa like he’d run out of reasons to keep breathing. But this…he didn’t know what to make of all of this. Where had all of these books come from for crying out loud? What work?
“So, why are you home so early?”
“I have to go out again.”
“Ah.” Ethan nodded, eyes skittering around the living room. He chewed nervously on his bottom until it looked raw and the wolf in Pat wanted to cross the distance between them to sooth it with his tongue.
He suppressed the urge and asked, “You want to get dinner?”
“Like go out?” Ethan asked with a sharp look.
“I was thinking pizza, actually.”
“Oh. I guess that’s fine. Whatever. I’m not that hungry.”
“If you want something else—?”
“No, get what you want, and I’ll have a little.”
“Are you sure?” he demanded.
“Yes,” Ethan huffed, bending to re-stack the empty cardboard boxes.
Pat went upstairs to change and call in the order, and when he came downstairs he found Ethan seated cross-legged on the floor, staring at a mini tower of old looking books.
“Where did all of this come from?” he asked, giving into his curiosity.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to spread out quite so much.”
Pat sighed. “It’s fine.”
“Yeah, but don’t worry, I’ve almost separated everything I need. I’ll have the rest of it boxed up before—”
“You can spread out. That’s not a problem.”
Ethan froze, one hand lingering on the cover of a particularly large and tatty looking manuscript. At closer examination, the books reminded Pat of the ones he’d purchased from the Three Sisters Magic Shoppe a while ago; in other words, they looked like magic books. He supposed that made sense, and Pat wondered when Ethan had had time to retrieve them from his apartment.
“Is that where you were yesterday?” he asked.
Ethan frowned. “What?”
Pat swept his arm around the room to take in the library that had sprung up overnight.
“That doesn’t…where do you think I was?” Ethan asked, frowning.
“Your apartment.”
“Ah. No. Well, actually a few of them are. But no, most of these are—” Ethan cut himself off with a sharp laugh, eyes darting towards one the far side of the living room. His whole body looked tensed, prepared for flight, and Pat couldn’t figure out if it was because of his presence or his question or maybe something entirely unrelated to him.
He didn’t like this inability to read the other man. Oh, to be sure, Ethan had always been tricky to get a read on unless he was horny—that was one mood Pat felt certain he could have distinguished from space, and one that had been conspicuously absent since their return to the city. But day to day, he was at a constant loss to follow the mage’s mercurial moods, always uncertain whether Ethan would try flirting or fighting with him. Some people might have found it exciting, and in some ways Pat had, few people got his blood pumping as hot with anticipation as Ethan did, but sometimes he would have liked to just come home and not have to worry about putting his foot in it.
“No, most of these are my inheritance. Quite the collection, isn’t it?” Ethan’s mouth cut itself into a cruel smirk as he swept one arm over the mess, like a showman displaying his wares.
“I guess?”
“But I guess magic books aren’t really your thing.”
Pat blinked, shocked at the edge in the mage’s words and wondering all over again what he’d done in the five minutes he’d been home to warrant it. “I guess not.”
They were interrupted by the doorbell ringing.
Pat leapt up to answer it. He carried the pizza boxes into the kitchen and hesitated before putting a slice of each—one sausage and the other garlic chicken with spinach—onto two plates.
“You want something to drink?” he hollered at the living room
“I don’t think we have anything.”
Pat jumped, surprised that the mage had managed to sneak up on him. He was standing right behind Pat, staring covetously at the pizza. Without asking he reached over Pat and transferred the slice of sausage off one of the plates and put it on the plate in front of Pat, grabbed another one of the chicken, and bit into it. This close, the smell of garlic and oil was nearly overwhelming, filling his sense. Pat turned, watching the other man chew and swallow slowly, their eyes locked.
It was ridiculous to feel this sexual over gods damned pizza, Pat reminded himself.
“Okay, pizza was an excellent idea,” Ethan allowed, setting his slice down. He turned and opened the glass cabinet. “I think we’re stuck with water unless you want to make more coffee? I’m kind of coffee-d out for today.” He reached up to grab glasses, the edge of his T-shirt riding up.
Pat felt his mouth run dry. His hands ached to reach out and wrap themselves around that strip of exposed skin, to feel the soft, flexible strength of Ethan’s waist under his palms, to dig his fingers into pale flesh.
“Fuck,” Pat muttered under his breath and curled his hands into fists at his sides to keep from touching. Ethan had made himself more than clear about how he felt about physical contact, and Pat was trying so hard to respect the mage’s boundaries no matter how much it hurt—hurt him deep in his chest, where his wolf nested, not to touch his mate, to hold him and mark him and leave him smelling like Pat and satisfaction.
Ethan froze. He turned ponderously, knuckles white where he was holding onto the glasses, and Pat realized just how close they were standing. When had he closed the distance? It was too difficult to follow his own ephemeral train of thought. Instead, he held is breath as Ethan took a step towards him, their bodies a hairsbreadth from touching, so that he could very nearly feel the rush of air zipping in and out of Ethan’s lungs and the heat pouring off his skin. This close the blond only had to tilt his head a little to bring their faces together, sharing the same thick air.
For a couple beats of his heart, Pat was convinced that Ethan was going to kiss him—finally, oh moon, finally—but then Ethan’s eyes slid over to the left, skittered towards something over his shoulder, the color drained from his cheeks, and he jerked away. The glasses clattered to the counter as Ethan set them down and then skirted away from Pat. He flicked on the water and started scrubbing furiously at his fingers until the skin turned bright pink.
Pat watched in disappointed silence, trying to figure out what the hell had just happened. He couldn’t see anything to scare Ethan off, and it hurt to watch him at the sink, the pinched look to his mouth and eyes, the rawness of his skin. The lever was pushed all the way to the left, it had to be blisteringly hot, but Ethan didn’t show any signs that the temperature bothered him. After a couple minutes of this, Pat reached over and turned the water off, making Ethan stop even though he refused to look up, shoulders wound back up to peak tension, worse than they’d been before.
“Hey.”
No response.
Pat sighed. He grabbed the glasses. Ethan moved out of his way and watched with a blank expression while he filled them, took the one Pat offered, and drank it without having to be prompted.
“Are we going to talk about this?” Pat forced the question out through a tight throat.
“No.”
“Fuck, Ethan.”
“I said no,” the mage snapped. “Are we going to talk about your case?”
Pat frowned. “Why would we?”
Ethan’s mouth flapped open before he regained control of his expression. “No reason, I guess.”
“You said you didn’t know anything about vampires.”
This made the mage straighten. He shook his head.
“I don’t. You’re sure then. That’s who’s behind…whatever it is you’re investigating?”
“Pretty sure yeah.”
“Well. You’re right, why would we talk about that?” Ethan reached up with his empty hand and cracked his neck in one smooth motion, the snap loud in Pat’s wolf-ears, making him jump a little. Before he could diffuse the situation, the mage had skirted around him and left the kitchen.
“Damn it,” Pat hissed under his breath flexing his blunt nails against the counter. He didn’t have fur to stand on edge, but the feeling was much the same, twisting though his body. He shoveled food into his mouth without much care for the taste and then put the rest of it in the fridge.
Feeling greasy, he went upstairs to get cleaned up. Mallory had told him to dress for the part of a club-goer so that they wouldn’t stick out, and while it made him uncomfortable, he obligingly dug through his clothes looking for something that would work.
Ethan
Ethan huddled in the living room, behind a screen of books and empty boxes, listening to Pat move around the kitchen. His stomach churned over the bites of pizza he’d eaten, making him regret them. He couldn’t make his hands stop shaking, no matter how hard he gripped his own knees, how he dug his fingers into the rug, how he held on, wrapped his arms around his bent legs and just tried to breathe. He knew that he had to get a hold of himself before the wolf came back and started asking questions again, questions that Ethan didn’t want to answer. He suspected that if Pat saw him like this he wouldn’t take anymore “no’s,” no matter how tightly Ethan tried to clam up. And he was just upset enough that he worried he might crack down the middle and confess to what was going on.
He swore he could feel her eyes on his skin, watching him, the way she’d been watching them with that low, toe-curling smile on her face. Lascivious, that’s the word he was looking for.
Ethan pressed his cheek against his sweater covered forearm and swallowed convulsively.
Besides that, he had to get a hold of himself before he did something stupid like set the house on fire.
He could feel his magic shifting inside his body, just waiting for a trigger, worse than it ever had been before, because he’d been an idiot and spent all afternoon using it. And rather than deplete his reserves like he’d have expected, the casual use seemed to have strengthened his connection to the well inside him to a degree that Ethan couldn’t remember feeling before. He’d had an increasing affinity with his magic for months, sure, had pulled off a series of increasingly impressive spells, but these outbursts scared him, especially the way they only seemed to get stronger and more difficult to suppress.
He’d been shocked earlier when a thought had managed to summon a book he wanted from his mother’s boxes. A thought. He hadn’t even known Gregorio’s Compendium of Astral Matters was lurking within one of the boxes, but a stray thought had unearthed it, brought it directly into his hands. And it hadn’t stopped there. All he had to do was hold a vague image of any book he could think of and if it had been in the room it had come to him.
It didn’t sound like much, the kind of party trick that any half-baked wizard in a movie could have pulled off, but that’s because movies were made by norms who didn’t know what the fuck they were talking about.
Magic like this, like he’d been taught in the north, required ritual and preparation—symbols, herbs, the right kind of focusing items to channel the magical energy into productive pathways. Less focused offensive magic like the sort Ethan had sometimes employed as a detective—raw energy to incapacitate suspects—might not have required the same sort of preparation, but it came with conversely destructive force, and it was rarely precise. At least not when Ethan used it. The fact that his magic had sorted through the book collection without his having to have line of sight on the books themselves, and then brought large physical objects directly to him in a—mostly—controlled manner without blowing anything up or setting the pages on fire…that was control that Ethan had never had before, and it made him by parts giddy and nervous.
He’d spent all afternoon not only going through the books to pick out what tomes might help him with the ghosts, but also testing his range, going so far as to try summoning multiple objects at a time and then arranging everything into little piles, sorting the collection in a fraction of the time it would have taken to do it by hand.
Hours had escaped him while he’d…there was no better word for it, while he played with his magic. And it had been late by the time he got back to the reading he needed to do, compelled by Adam’s scowl sometime around two or three in the afternoon when the ghost had reasserted his presence.
Ethan didn’t know when Ali’s ghost had slipped back into his visual range, he hadn’t noticed her until Pat came home, and now she appeared determined to stick around, leering at him every time he glanced over. At least she hadn’t tried talking to him while Pat was in the room. The werewolf hadn’t shown any indication that he could see her anymore than Adam, and Ethan could only imagine what it would look like if he started talking to people that the wolf couldn’t see.
Now, Ethan took deep breaths, clutching at his own arms while he tried to hold himself together. He heard Pat go upstairs after a while and he let himself bang his head against the wall once or twice just as a distraction. When he looked up, he found Ali sitting cross legged in front of him with a curious look on her face.
“I don’t know why you do this to yourself,” she said.
He glared.
“Is it guilt? Do you really feel guilty for what you did?”
“You murdered people.”
“Yes,” she grinned. “Yes, I did. They were sheep.”
“How can you say that?”
“Fortune tellers. Selling themselves and their skills to the norms for a dollar. They squandered their talents trying to appeal to people who were less than them. Than us.”
“You sound like a cheap villain.”
“Yeah, well, who wrote my lines?” she murmured, drifting away as Adam hurried into the room. The ghosts still obeyed the physics of the house, walking through open doorways rather than walls as though they hadn’t quite given up their illusions to living.
“What are you doing on the floor?” Adam demanded.
Ethan groaned and squeezed his eyes shut.
“Get up.”
“Why?”
“Pat’s going out.”
“So?”
“So, you said we were going to investigate my case.”
“Pat isn’t investigating you.”
“I heard him ask you about vampires. I was killed by a vampire!”
“Yes, and as we all know, there’s only one vampire in the whole city. On the whole west coast, actually.”
“I’m not sure if anyone’s told you this before, but you’re not actually funny.”
Ethan looked at the ghost. He could see Ali pacing the hall between the living room and the kitchen, humming quietly to herself. He gave Adam an incredulous look. “No, you’re the first to mention it. Thank you.”
“Sarcasm is the lowest form of humor, dude, try harder.”
“I’m not going out.”
“Why not?” he demanded.
“Because I’m…” Ethan reached for one of the magic books, equal parts satisfied and unsettled when it flew into his hands with a comforting thwap. “I have my own shit to do. Besides, do you really think I could follow without him noticing? I don’t have an invisibility cloak.”
“Who are you talking to?” Pat asked, coming into the room with his jacket in one hand. He gave Ethan a confused look.
“No one. Myself. You didn’t say where you’re going.”
“The station.”
“He’s lying,” Adam hissed into his ear.
“I might be out pretty late.”
“Give Mallory my best.”
“That’s it?”
“What else do you want from me?”
The wolf looked at him, but Ethan couldn’t decipher his expression. He waited until Pat shook his head, shrugged on his jacket, and walked out the door.
“You’re a real piece of work, Ellison.”
“Now that—you’re not the first person to tell me.”
Ethan ignored the ghosts, leapt to his feet, and started sorting out supplies for the banishment he’d discovered that afternoon. It wasn’t specifically designed for ghosts, but he thought it might be adaptable if he were able to use a focusing object that had belonged to the person he wanted to banish.
“You know, I’m surprised you left this lying around my apartment,” he said, digging through one of his duffle bags for the hairbrush he’d found in his apartment that afternoon. “Seems pretty sloppy.”
No response, but Ethan didn’t need one. He had enough dyed hair stuck in the brush to power several banishments if the first one didn’t take.
He extracted a faded blue strand and dropped it into a little wooden bowl—hand carved from local wood. He worked like a man in a trance. Again, all it took was a thought to clear a space in the living room. He drew a circle in chalk and then filled the edges with a series of sigils, copied with care from sketches in the book, and then enclosed them in a series of sand circles. He grabbed a large candle from his bag, dug around for a lighter, had to go looked for the one he’d used with the hookah, and then set himself down with the candle and the bowl of hair and began the incantation.
Ethan could see Ali’s apparition smirking at him from across the living room and Adam pacing in the hall, muttering to himself about assholes who didn’t follow through on their promises. Adam disappeared again, and it wasn’t long before Ethan had lost track of time. He tried to clear his mind of distractions, all of his energy focused down on that flickering flame and the strand of hair it illuminated, as he dug down into himself reaching out for the tide of magic that had been trying to burst out. It was easier to reach than it had ever been before, surging up below his skin with a thought, responding almost eagerly to his instructions. It was the flick of a finger to channel the magic into the flame, which flared with energy, that crackle and tang of ozone tickling his nose.
But as he spoke the words of the banishment, Ali remained stubbornly visible, her gaze a physical weight on his skin.
So he began it again.
Murmuring the words, voice growing loud with his desperation as the candle wick burned faster and hotter. Ethan poured magic into the spell until the wax ran hot into the bowl and ignited the hair, and still he kept on chanting until his throat was dry, voice cracking.
He couldn’t stop because she was still there, still watching him, defiant.
“Ethan!” Pat’s voice broke through the cloud in his mind like a thunderclap, slamming Ethan back into his body with a rush that left him breathless.
Strong hands closed around Ethan’s where he’d been digging his nails into his pants.
“What are you doing?” Pat demanded, all wide eyes that glowed a little in the horrible yellow candle light.
The flame burned higher than any natural wick should have been able to, having eaten through the wax until there was only a stub left struggling to keep up with his magical demands. The hair had burned to a crisp, sooty particles entombed in melted wax all that remained.
Pat leaned forward, trying to get his attention and as he did so his knee scuffed the edge of the chalk line. Ethan blinked and a brisk wind rushed into the circle. The candle winked out and the spell broke, leaving him panting for breath, throat aching.
Ali threw her head back with a laugh that Ethan would have sworn rang in his ears loud as bells. He shoved the wolf away with a snarl and stormed out of the room, refusing to answer Pat no matter how concerned he sounded shouting Ethan’s name at his back.