~ Jaxon ~

"How long does it take to find out if a rumor is true or not?" Sylas complains. "It's been three days already."

He sits across from me at the table. I'm eating breakfast—fried eggs, buttered toast, and a healthy dose of coffee. Sylas is fretting. He says nerves ruin his appetite, but he's barely eaten a full meal since Yumi announced my brother's unconfirmed wedding plans, and—as he just pointed out—that was three days ago.

"Relax," I tell him. "Yumi's on it."

He frowns and massages his fingers—an anxious habit—and makes the same argument he's been making for the past three months.

"Lyssa's my only family, Jaxon," he says. "My little sister. I can't just do some yoga and be fine."

I could tell him what I think: that, as much as he's done for her, Lyssa's been taking care of herself for a long time; that she's grown up fast; that she's a selfish bitch, and that the familial love and loyalty is one-sided on his part. But I don't. I suspect he knows it already, even if he hasn't accepted it yet, and saying it out loud won't change his mind.

"If the rumor's true, we'll know soon enough, regardless," I point out. "Marcus isn't the sort to settle for a low-key, city hall ceremony. He'll want the whole shebang—hundreds of guests, the best of everything—it'll be a million-dollar affair, and everyone who's anyone will be invited. In the meantime..."

I sigh. I know 'relax' is among the least helpful suggestions to offer someone experiencing anxiety. Something to do, on the other hand, is more constructive.

"In the meantime, I've got a case for you," I finish. "A student up at Harbor City College."

He looks up, a glimmer of interest in his strange, blood-red eyes. "What kind of case?"

I answer around a bite of egg and toast. "Love spell with unforeseen results."

He slumps, obviously disappointed. "Oh. Well, that's better than nothing, I guess."

I know he's frustrated. He wants to test himself, and to use his skills to help people, and I know he chafes at the way I control his work. I don't like it either, but for the moment it can't be helped. A single mistake could be catastrophic, and I won't risk it.

I also know that feeling powerless isn't helping his anxiety, so I do my best to strike a balance.

"Nic said the request came in yesterday. Top priority," I say. "Some kid looking for a spellbreaker, and wants it kept 'discreet.' Probably just some freshman too embarrassed to go to a registered Crafter, given the nature of the problem. But, it's up to you. If you don't want this one, Nic can pass it on to someone else."

Sylas clears his throat and takes a sip of water, which is the only thing he's consumed so far this morning. "No," he says, as we both knew he would. "I'll do it."

I nod. "Good. There's a condition, though."

He frowns, as if he can already guess what I'm going to say. "Which is?"

"You gotta eat something," I say, confirming his suspicion. "No Crafting, or un-Crafting, on an empty stomach."

"I'm not hungry," he snaps. "You already control what I do, Jaxon. I don't need you controlling my diet, too."

I say nothing. He knows better than to think that's really my intention.

After a moment, he stops bristling. "Sorry. I guess you're right." He sighs. "I'm a bitch when I don't eat."

"I'll make you something," I offer. "Whatever you like."

"'Kay then, I'll have eggs Benedict, a real butter croissant from a real pâtisserie, and a yogurt parfait," he answers.

My mind goes blank. I think we have eggs, but as for the rest...

"I, uh...can see what I can do, but..."

He sighs again, but offers me a weak smile, this time. "I'm kidding, Jaxon. You humor detector's still broken, but at least I know if I were serious, you'd do your best. Just some peanut butter toast is fine. It's all I can handle right now, anyway."

I nod and rise, and go to make him some toast.

He's right on both counts.

Humor's not my thing, and I'd do just about anything to make him happy.

✧ ✧ ✧

The drive into the city is uneventful. Nic had created fake IDs for all of us—whole fake identities, not just the cards—and we're using one of his backup vehicles. It's a nondescript little silver thing, the sort of car nobody glances at twice, and as long as we don't get pulled over, we'll be fine. To be safe, we stick to daylight hours and vigilantly abide the traffic laws. As an added precaution, I'd also pasted a Semper Fi sticker on the rear bumper, the Marine Corp being something most cop-types seem to respect.

Even if I'm an Army man, myself.

That's where I'd first met Nic. He was in intelligence, and already a senior officer by that point. The military might seem like an odd career choice for a man who's basically an over-sized teddy bear, but Nic's a complicated guy. He'd gotten out about the same time I had, and then our paths had crossed again on the civilian side.

The Gifted straddle the Mundane and Crafter worlds, not fully belonging to either, but able to act as a bridge between. That's what Nic does. He's a connections man—putting the right people in touch with each other at the right time—and he's the one to go to when you want something found out.

Well, Yumi does the finding, but Nic's the one who makes it happen.

I don't know what I'd do without him.

The College is on the city's western edge—the landward side—tucked back against the steep rise of towering green hills. It's small, built on about 300 acres of land donated by a Crafter family more philanthropic than mine, although several of the buildings owe their existence to Spellwright 'generosity.' In other words, my father or mother had traded some money for attention and prestige.

We park in the visitor lot, and Sylas is out of the car the moment it stops moving.

"Gods, I forgot how good the air smells here," he says, taking a deep breath and stretching his arms wide, fingers curled around the cuffs of his large sweater.

I sniff, but don't notice that much of a difference.

"Put your hood up," I tell him. "It's not likely we'll be recognized here, but best not take chances."

I don't stand out much, anyway, but Sylas does. Thankfully, it's a cool, overcast day, and two guys in sweaters with their hoods up is not an uncommon sight on campus.

He obeys, and then we strike off into the wilds of Harbor City College.

The architecture is modern, with lots of glass and light-colored wood, interspersed with green spaces and trees—like a little oasis at the edge of the city. It has a laid-back, yet studious atmosphere, and I can see Sylas beginning to relax. He looks at home here, as we pass among groups of students hauling bags and packs full of heavy books, focused on their own agendas and concerns. Most don't spare us a second glance, but now and then one will look up and give a nod or some other sign of recognition.

It's not us they recognize, of course; just the fact we're Crafters—like them.

There are two sides to the college—Crafter and Mundane—and two entirely separate course catalogs: the regular one, and the one Mundane students never see. Some buildings, too, are reserved for Crafter use, though this isn't obvious. To Mundane students, they're just buildings where they never happen to have any classes.

"I got accepted here," Sylas says with off-handed wistfulness, gazing up at one such edifice. "I was going to study history, or literature, maybe. And spellcraft, of course. Sometimes I wish I hadn't taken the time off after high school. Sometimes I wish..."

He trails off, and a hint of color rises to his cheeks.

I know why, because I know his wish.

He never went to college because his parents died; his parents died because my mom killed them; and she killed them because of the messed up, entangled origins of his family and mine.

And if none of that had ever happened...

"Hey, I wish things, too," I say, as we approach the entrance of the library where we'd agreed to meet our client. "But I'll never wish I hadn't met you, Sylas; that's one thing I'd never change."

He doesn't answer, distracted by the sleek grandeur and academic ostentation in front of him, and I don't know if he even heard me as we pass inside.

✧ ✧ ✧

The library has four levels, including a basement, and the top three  wrap around a long, central atrium with a roof of glass. It's open, clean, and bright, and has all the amenities a well-funded library could want.

The ground level floor includes a café, the circulation and reference centers, private study rooms, a little shop with things like notebooks and pencils, an art gallery, and a small theater for showing films. The second level is all books, and the third is an open study area.

The tables up there are well-spaced, and talking is allowed as long it's not disruptive, making it an ideal spot to meet someone who wants to have a whispered conversation over some papers without seeming weird.

"How will we know him?" Sylas asks, as we step from the glass elevator onto the study floor.

It seems like a popular place, and most of the tables are full. A chest-high wall of glass guards the chasm of the central atrium  and allows a clear view of the opposite side. The space is wide open, every area visible from almost any other, the advantage and disadvantage of which is the same: there's nowhere to hide.

"Nic said he'd be wearing a Star Trek shirt," I say, scanning the room.

"Why?"

"To stand out, and so nobody sits next to him."

"Oh. That must be him, then." Sylas points, and I follow the direction of his gaze.

Across from us, seated at a table near the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, is the only person who fits both criteria: he's alone, and he's wearing a shirt with a big, slanted gold arrowhead and a picture of a bald guy on the front.

Unfortunately, he's also sitting in the corner farthest from either the elevator or the stairs, making it good for visibility (we'll be able to see everyone who comes and goes) but bad for escape (both exits could be easily cut off).

He's just a kid who got his hand caught in the pickle jar, I remind myself. Not an enemy spy.

"Come on," I grunt, and lead Sylas along the open space surrounding the atrium. "Keep your head down until I give the 'all clear.'"

"What's the 'all clear?'" he whispers.

"When I introduce you. You're 'Cameron Hadley,' remember?"

"I still think that's a dumb fake name, but yeah, Abel Lambert, I remember," he hisses. "And what if it's not 'all clear?'"

"You'll know by the swearing, probably."

"Oh, right."

We near the table, and Trek dude looks up. He's got a bland, stock-photo sort of face, brown hair, dark eyes, and oddly—as far as I can tell—he's not a Crafter. Then again, I barely give off magical resonance, myself.

"Brady?" I ask, using the name Nic had given me.

He nods. "Yeah. Hi."

He doesn't seem that excited to see us. I'd expected a nervous kid, all jumpy and paranoid and eager for help, but 'Brady' looks like he's waiting for his takeout order, and we're the delivery guys.

Or the takeout, maybe.

"I'm Abel Lambert. Nicodemus sent us," I offer.

Sylas and I sit opposite him, like detectives interrogating a suspect. I extend my hand, but Brady makes no move to shake it, and instead, someone else's hand settles on my shoulder.

With a sinking feeling in my heart, I twist and look up to see my brother, Aurelio, looking down at me. He wears a somber expression on his emotionless, sculpted face that would make the Vulcans proud.

"Abel is it?" he says in his low, mild tone. "Then, as I am your elder, I suppose that must make me Cain."

It is most certainly not 'all clear.'

"Motherfucking hell," I say.