The Mage on the Hill Read online

Carefully, he set Jones down on the longer end of the brown leather sectional, pulled off his shoes, and covered him with all three of the fleece blankets that had been scattered about the room. He gazed down at what was still a beautiful face despite the dark circles under the eyes and the too prominent bone structure, and resisted the urge to brush that single white lock from Jones’s forehead. Stupid. He shouldn’t even have gone to the door. Should have pretended he wasn’t home.

  Now it was done, though. He couldn’t take it back. Nor could he call an ambulance. An unplaceable near his end in a normal human hospital would lead to terrible tragedy. So. It wasn’t complicated. Merely wretched. He would take care of the boy until his final magical seizure killed him. Outcast, yes, but he was certainly capable enough to contain a wild magic surge safely on his own, and they were isolated enough on his hill that the damage would be minimal if he couldn’t, and damn the guild for driving the boy to such desperate measures.

  Still need to feed him.

  He made his slow way back up the stairs to the kitchen, where he stood staring at the contents of the refrigerator, unable to settle on anything suitable to give someone wasting away. He had food—eggs, yogurt, milk, some other things in containers—but none of that struck him as appropriate. The freezer wasn’t much better, filled as it was with microwaveable dinners. A bit of digging did turn up some pork chops. That would do.

  Darius frowned at the pork chop staring up at him from the baking sheet. There had been a time when he enjoyed cooking. Living alone, he’d fallen out of the habit. Many days, eating for him was simply a chore like any other. Fine for him, but now he needed to entice someone to eat whose body desperately required extra calories. Pepper. Rosemary. Are there potatoes still?

  No. The potatoes in the bin had reached the wrinkling, soft stage. Not something he could serve his impromptu guest. Still frowning, he shoved the tray into the oven, then sat at the kitchen table to wait while dinner baked with his head resting on his arms.

  This was all a terrible mistake. How was he going to find the energy to deal with another human being?

  WAKING UP after passing out was something Toby thought he could turn into an art form. What sort of art, he wasn’t certain, but something to do with first impressions of new surroundings. This one he probably would’ve titled Neglected Man Cave with its massive leather furniture, projection TV, and evenly layered dust that hinted at abandonment. He sat up slowly, grateful for the multiple blankets as he started to shiver.

  Still Valstad’s house? Impossible to say from this one room. At least he wasn’t facedown on the driveway. He couldn’t even say what Valstad looked like, since he’d been backlit from the light in the hall. Toby retained the impression of a hulking, shambling figure with a hoarse, snarling voice but little beyond that.

  Toby’s exit from the infirmary had been almost disappointing in its uneventfulness. He had gotten dressed, gathered the few belongings he had in the room in a pillowcase, and climbed out the first-floor window. Once he’d reached the main road, he called for an Uber and got a squint from the driver when he provided the address. The driver had been a little wary about dropping off some young punk with a pillowcase at a swanky gated home, but Toby assured him it was his uncle’s house. The guy must’ve figured since he had his money, it wasn’t his business. Toby waved to him cheerfully as he drove away.

  Neither the fence across the driveway nor the wall fronting the property was more than six feet, no problem on a normal day. On a magical fit day? It’d nearly been impossible. When Toby had finally dropped over, his lungs had burned and his heart felt like every beat was trying to hammer a hole in his sternum. Onward, he’d told himself. Almost there. And other stupid cheery things. Then to top off a perfect day, he’d made a complete idiot of himself begging on his knees and fainting at Valstad’s feet.

  He’d made it clear he didn’t want anything to do with Toby. So where the hell was this now?

  Huddled over his knees to stop his shaking, he stilled his breathing to listen. A creak, a clunk, several thuds—yes, someone was upstairs. Unformed anxious thoughts niggled at the edges of his brain. He wasn’t scared or anything. He just didn’t like the not knowing part.

  The shambling figure that finally plodded down the stairs didn’t make him feel better, exactly. The stooped shoulders were still broad, the hunched frame still tall. Long lank hair that could have been any shade between blond and brown hung halfway down the apparition’s back and obscured one eye completely. He carried a folding table tray under one arm and a serving tray in the opposite hand. When he turned to face Toby, the visible eye glaring at him was clear sapphire blue.

  Valstad. Shit, what’s happened to him?

  The man—Valstad, because who else could it be?—set the tray down on the coffee table, set up the tray in front of Toby, and plunked a plate and glass on it. “Eat,” he whisper-growled as he transferred silverware from the tray as well. Then he pulled a phone out of a shirt pocket and plunked that next to the plate. “Parents.”

  “Okay, um, hi. Nice to meet you. I can’t call my parents. They’ll want to put me in hospice. Which, sorry, I’m not ready to do.” Toby risked a glance up to find Valstad staring at him, expressionless. “Also, thank you. This smells great. But what if I was a vegetarian?”

  That single blue eye narrowed. Without another word, Valstad turned away and shuffled back up the stairs.

  “Oh, good going. Yeah, real smooth, being a smartass to the one guy you need on your side.”

  Toby would have smacked himself if he’d had the energy. He cut off a tiny bit of pork chop, reasoning that if he started small, he could coax his stomach into eating more. While he was chewing that first, admittedly tasty bite, Valstad clomped back down the stairs.

  He fixed Toby with a steady glare and dropped a container of hummus on the tray with more force than necessary. Then he switched his glare to the pork chop, his dark frown most likely commentary at Toby’s lack of progress, before he shuffled back up the stairs without a word.

  “Please don’t be a psycho. Please,” Toby whispered to the shuffling footsteps overhead. Though, if this ruined mage was unhinged and killed him, was he worse off than before? Eh. Not really. Being murdered was just a different way to die if Valstad couldn’t or wouldn’t help him.

  One thing at a time. Toby made his way methodically through the pork chop, which he had to admit was the best thing he’d eaten in weeks, gnawed the bone clean, and guzzled down the bottle of Gatorade his host had left him. He would’ve eaten the hummus, too, but he would’ve had to scoop it out with his fingers. That seemed a little barbaric even for a man cave meal.

  Still thirsty and needing to piss something fierce, he levered himself off the couch and wobbled around the corner, where he found a convenient bathroom, complete with shower. It wasn’t exactly dirty, but the fixtures gave off the same air of neglect as the other room, a layer of dust over everything as if no one had set foot in there in years.

  He could at least have soap out, even if he doesn’t come down here.

  A quick search turned up bars of soap in the vanity along with hotel-sized bottles of everything from shampoo to mouthwash. Toby considered a shower until he realized there were no towels. That’s all right. Don’t think I can stand up long enough for a shower. Instead, he emptied his bladder, washed his hands and face, filled up his Gatorade bottle with water, and went back to his couch-bed. A good guest would’ve taken the dishes up, of course. In the morning, he told himself as he curled back up under the blankets. The leather couch managed to be more comfortable than the infirmary beds, and his exhaustion shoved him off into sleep before his brain could start doing anxiety spins.

  DARIUS SLEPT late. He often did these days, on nights when he slept at all. Most mornings, he had little reason to get up. Today, though, there was something…. He had promised the koi that he would trim back the weeping cherry. Something else….

  He wasn’t alone in the house.

  The sud
den recollection had him out of bed before he’d formulated what he was going to do about it. The boy. The young man. The dying young man. Dammit.

  Jones refused to call relatives. That was the first thing. While Darius could have called Montchanin and explained the situation, perhaps called the parents himself, Jones had obviously left the guild because of the threat of hospice. They both knew what that meant for a wild mage—drugged nearly comatose to prevent explosions of magic, kept “comfortable” while denied food and water until death arrived.

  The magical community considered it euthanasia. When he’d been younger, Darius had considered it execution. Jones gave every sign that he agreed.

  Sudden pain in his hand had Darius glancing down to find his fists clenched to shaking. He couldn’t help. He’d given his word never to teach again. Guild law forbade it. He’d kept his word all those years.

  But the thought of giving the boy up to the guild—to his executioners—filled Darius with a dark, acrimonious anger. No. He would watch. Protect the boy as he could. Protect the surrounding land. Death would come. Let it come on Jones’s terms, not the fucking guild’s.

  He fished through the clothes strewn on the floor for a relatively clean pair of jeans. They hung low on his hips these days. One day he might have to find a belt. A black T-shirt in the far corner was passable too. Cardigan. Slippers. He hesitated in the bedroom doorway. There were probably things he should do as a host.

  Noises from the kitchen irritated him. He’d not given permission to use the appliances or raid supplies. Of course, the first thing Jones did was take advantage. That’s how the world worked. Darius was furious by the time he turned the corner and entered the room. What he saw stopped his angry snarl and his bitter thoughts in their tracks.

  The counters gleamed. The dishes from the past week had been washed and set to dry in the rack. Jones was on his hands and knees, scrubbing at a stubborn stain in front of the stove.

  “Oh, hey! Thanks for dinner last night. Came upstairs to bring my dishes in and thought I’d help out a little.” Jones shot him a dazzling smile as he used the counter to climb to his feet. He swayed a moment, letting out a slow breath.

  “Dizzy?” Darius grated out.

  “I’m okay. Got up too fast. So, it’s okay if I stay? Since you haven’t kicked me out?” Jones’s head snapped around when a flash of red zipped by the window. “Oh, pretty. Cardinals. You have birdfeeders. Cool. Look, I hope you don’t mind, but I found this old package of Oreos downstairs. Brought that up, too, since it wasn’t opened. I, ah, had a few.”

  Darius rubbed above his eyebrows, where a headache threatened, with two fingers. “Oreos.”

  To his horror, the package was half-empty when he wandered over to check. The boy had been so hungry that he’d been devouring expired cookies. He shook his head and checked the fridge. Eggs, yes, still good. Bacon passed the sniff test. Cheese? No. That needed to get tossed. He felt Jones watching as he shuffled to the counter with his finds and pulled a frying pan down from the rack. Even though he knew it would lead to revulsion, he pulled a band from the junk drawer and tied his hair back. Wordlessly, he used the spatula to point to the coffee maker.

  “Do I drink coffee? Yeah.” Jones came around where he could face Darius and sucked in a sharp breath. “Holy fuck. Your eye. I mean, shit, of course you know your eye’s gone, but what happened?”

  Darius gave an emphatic stab with the spatula at the coffee maker as the bacon began to sizzle.

  “Oh, got it! You want me to make the coffee. I can do that.” Jones was quiet for precisely five seconds as he searched out the filters and coffee grinds. “Look, I’m sorry. It must’ve happened a long time ago and I don’t mean to pry.” Another five-second pause accompanied a trip to the sink to fill the carafe. “And my reaction was out of line. Sorry about that too. Just was unexpected. See, I found an old picture of you online. Aaaand I’m not going down that line of thought because if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s foot in mouth. Should make me really flexible by now, right?”

  Jones had the temerity to wink at him. That hadn’t happened in longer than Darius could recall, not that he had any idea what the boy meant. Was he being friendly? Simply flirting in a humorous way? Trying to bribe Darius with the promise of sex? Did he know or was he guessing?

  Dangerous game. Guessing.

  Darius turned back to making breakfast, giving the boy a good view of his ruined, scarred-over eye socket. It was enough to turn even the most determined stomach and would provide sufficient disincentive. As he had hoped, the boy shut up and went about his assigned task quietly.

  The blessed quiet remained as they sat down at the breakfast bar with their respective plates and mugs and lasted through exactly three bites of eggs.

  “I’m from out West. Spokane. Ever been there?”

  Darius shook his head, gaze on his plate as he kept eating. Jones seemed to take it as a sign to keep talking.

  “My family’s always been there. Well, not always, of course. But a bunch of generations back from the first mages to come out there. Mostly Light and Air mages. Runs in the family. I was some weird throwback, I guess. I dunno. No one can really tell me how wild mages happen, and my aunties, they make it seem like my mom and dad were bad parents or something, like it was their fault. That’s just stupid, of cou—”

  Jones had stopped so abruptly that Darius jerked his head up and met his guest’s horrified eyes.

  “Hands?” Darius slid off his stool carefully.

  “Yeah. They’re, um, they’re tingling.” Jones swallowed hard, his gaze pleading. “It shouldn’t happen again this soon. Right? It can’t.”

  “Outside,” Darius growled as he pointed to the sliding glass door to the terrace.

  “It can’t,” Jones whispered, frozen in place.

  Darius kicked off his slippers and grabbed the boy’s arm, roaring in his ear, “Out! Now! To the grass! Move!”

  That did it. Jones raced for the door, whimpering as he fumbled with the latch, but he had it open before Darius caught up to him. Out onto the terrace, down the steps and to the middle of the lawn he ran while Darius shuffled after him, trying to get stiff joints to move, dammit. Tendrils of magic already spat and heaved from the boy, lightning strokes heralding a storm the likes of which Darius hadn’t seen in fifteen years. He had to get this contained before Jones’s wild magic blew a hole in the surrounding countryside.

  Jones reached the middle of the lawn, tears streaming down his face, hands held out to his sides as his fingers began to throw magic sparks in silver and green. “I’m sorry.”

  “Shut up. Lie down,” Darius snarled as he flung himself to his knees on the lawn and pressed his palms flat against grass. “Lie down!”

  Chest heaving, Jones did as he was told. It wasn’t necessary, but it might save the boy from some injuries. What Darius was about to do wasn’t pretty or sanctioned by any guild. It was a technique born of desperation. He reached out for his Earth channels and through them for his Metals, pouring energy into them at a dangerous rate. It could kill him. It nearly had once.

  A circular wall of metal and stone ripped through the ground, heaving up to surround Jones and closing over him like an igloo. Underground, the wall would echo the shape above to form an enclosing sphere. A larger structure would have been better, safer, but Darius couldn’t risk the displacement of too much material without putting the foundations of the house at risk and possibly the foundations of the hillside.

  Even now, he couldn’t let go as he held the stones, pressing them close, throwing all his power into keeping them together. He felt rather than heard the terrible upswell and crash of wild magic inside his improvised containment cell, a horrible jolt against him that slammed into his heart and rattled his bones. Just the one. Then it was done.

  Panting, sweat dripping off his nose, Darius pulled his power back from the channels slowly, sliding the granite, iron, and feldspar into the earth from which he had ripped them so precip
itously. He would repair the damage later. Help the earth to settle, the grass to regrow. He gave himself a moment to gather his courage. The boy would be dead now. Those hidebound idiots at the guilds hadn’t helped him and now he was dead.

  Darius struggled to his feet, each step leaden and defeated. If only…. But no, those thoughts went nowhere but in sorrowful, keening circles. He would call the guild. Let them collect the body and contact the family. He knelt down next to Jones—Toby, the boy’s name was Toby—intending to straighten his limbs and lay him flat. When he touched Toby’s hand, he gasped and jerked back.

  Life. There was life in that failing body still.

  “Poor boy,” Darius whispered, stroking the sweat-soaked hair from Toby’s eyes.

  He gathered Toby into his arms for the second time in less than a day, his jaw clenched against his rising fury. The guild could go to hell. Maybe he couldn’t teach the boy without breaking the law, maybe he wouldn’t be able to teach him at all, but Darius wasn’t going to stand aside and let the guild destroy one more beautiful thing they didn’t understand.

  Chapter Three

  REALLY, IS waking up twice in a row in the same place too much to ask? Toby blinked carefully, trying to focus on his new surroundings. Not the neglected basement room with its leather-creak sofa, no doubts there. Sunlight threaded through filigree curtains that breathed gently in a soft breeze through an open garden window.

  Toby turned his head in agonizingly slow increments so he wouldn’t wake the construction crews lurking in his head. Four-poster. Dresser. Nightstand. All matching, all carved and turned into elegant shapes, though each piece was probably too heavy for him to shift.

  The ceiling even had a crystal light fixture with one of those round plaster decorative whatchamacallit thingies. Recall of fancy words would have to wait a bit.

  Not a hospital, though, that was also certain. He’d probably scared the hell out of Darius, who had taken him to one of the guild-approved hospices. Not that he blamed the man. Gods, no. All that effort gone to waste, though, and his last hope finished circling the drain. He had nothing left to do now but die.