Frazzled

Quentin

Time is measured by long nights, the people I see, and the click of a lock.

Elochian visits me nearly every night now, accompanied by Michael, of course. His days are filled with archdemon things, and my own are partially spent with Silas and Felix, or my own work. Our nights together are simple, a time for us to recharge from the day and just be together. We’ve gone back to Primo’s a couple of times, but that’s all our lives have allotted time for.

No matter what we do, each night ends the same way.

Laying in bed together. Our hands clasped between us, legs entangled and lips ever so close. We talk about everything and nothing, breathing in each other’s words. And then, one of us falls asleep. Most of the time I succumb first, I can’t help it. But sometimes, I get the rare pleasure of watching Elochian lose his battle. I love the way his lashes flutter and quiver when his eyelids finally shutter closed. The way his fingers twitch as he falls into a deeper sleep.

The way he pulls me close to him, groaning a little when our bodies finally align.

But I haven’t woken up to him in my bed again, not since our first date. It’s always a note, paired with a cup of water and my phone neatly plugged into its charger. They’re just little scraps of paper, nothing really, but each one hides in a box in my closet, along with Thatch’s letters.

My purpose has changed in the past few weeks. I keep the boys company in the afternoons during the school week, except on Thursdays, and Archeon stays with them then. I’ve taken them to Primo’s a few times, and I think it’s now Silas’ favorite place in the world.

I’ve certainly become close to Primo, and I’ve found out that his place rests on some of the oldest ground in Levena. What it was used for is a different story, though. According to my research, the End was the first separate ‘neighborhood’ of sorts that was built after Levena changed into Min, skipping over the roots of Etz Hayim to rest on the edges of a swamp. Why build there, in a time when the land was so inhospitable?

Besides playing babysitter, I’m back to teaching my Thursday nights in person, and Elochian escorts me to the university if he can manage it. I insist that I don’t need his protection, but it’s like talking to a brick wall when it comes to that. I can’t say that I really mind, and we usually bring home food and stay up late, which I like.

And during the rest of my time, I write.

Finnegan says he’s never read articles like mine before, and they’re exactly what he needs. Of course they’re under a pen name, but Elochian let it slip that he could tell it was me. Then I teased him for being a fanboy, and he blushed for days. He does that a lot lately.

“What’re you thinking about?”

I blink away visions of Elochian’s darkened cheeks and thoughts of change, turning my head towards Arlo. “Life. Everything and nothing.”

“Good one.” He scoffs, wiping excess ink from my forearm, which stings like a fucker.  “Well, if you want to talk, I’m not busy. Just sitting here, tattooing my best friend’s arm while he stares off into space.”

I chuckle. “Sorry. I think this is the longest I’ve sat still and just … relaxed.”

Arlo laughs, dipping his needle in fresh ink. “I think some people would disagree with your method of relaxation.” He introduces the needle to my skin once more, and I watch as a book’s spine comes to life in a cloud of soft green magick. Kitt’s studio is quiet, she’s been open less lately and she doesn’t live in the apartment upstairs anymore. She mostly lived with Lindsey to begin with, but she finally, and fully, moved out of the backup apartment (escape plan) around the time she proposed.

“Arlo,” I say quietly.

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

He lifts the needle from my skin, blinking up at me. “Quentin, you don’t need to keep thanking me for this, it’s not—”

“Yes, I do. This is big magick, Arlo.”

Arlo stares at me.

I stare at him.

He sighs. “You being safe is thanks enough. Now knock it off and leave it alone.”

I smile. “Fine. Only because you asked so nicely.”

Arlo winks at me, then goes back to work. He hums along to a song on the radio, something he usually does after smoking herb. The haze of our last session hangs in the air around us, a rare thing now, what with all the kids usually around. Well, maybe rare for him. After a few minutes he says, “By the way, Silas has been talking nonstop about that Primo’s since you brought him by.”

“Oh yeah, it’s teenage musician heaven, you know. You should come check it out with us sometime. When was the last time you took a break?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He laughs a little. “I consider this a break, honestly. You’re easy to be with, Q. And it’s so quiet.”

“Giving me shit for my relaxation methods, when yours are the same.” I huff, teasing.

“Hey, I said some people might disagree, not me.”

“This is true. Um, how much longer is this going to take?”

“Eh, ‘bout twenty more minutes. Why, got a hot date?”

I roll my eyes. “No, but my couch is calling my name. Lochian’s got some fancy council meeting with Tobias tonight, remember?”

“Oh, that’s right. Hey, did you get the picture Cas sent?”

I laugh. “Of Marlena terrorizing Charlie? Poor guy, probably not the kind of life he expected an archangel to have. I like him though.”

Arlo stops tattooing for a moment, peeking up at me. “You met him?”

I swallow. “Yeah, they all came by the cafe a few days ago.”

“Oh.”

“You were with Finnegan,” I say, instantly regretting my tone. “Looking at that complex in the End, I mean.”

“Right, yeah.” He shakes his head. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen them. Maybe I’ll stop there on the way home.”

“I think Cas would like that. He seemed a bit frazzled.”

Arlo barks out a laugh. “Frazzled? Caspian? No.”

I laugh too, settling back into the comfortable fog of peace and pain. We fall quiet for a little while, simply existing together. Eventually Arlo wipes my arm one last time, then leans back and stares at his handiwork. Quietly, he asks, “What do you think?”

I lift my arm, marveling at detailed vintage book spines, sheets of parchment with tiny writing that is foreign to me, and an inkwell complete with a featherless quill. I tilt my head, staring at it. I look up to Arlo with a question on my tongue, only to find one of Bosko’s feathers cradled in his hands, the bird situated on his shoulder like he’d been there the whole time.

He says, “With this, you will be able to tap into my magick. Call upon the quill and use it to keep your most precious words inside the books, or inscribe runes onto the parchment to cast your own spells. What you can do will be limited, but it’s better than nothing.”

“Arlo, I—I didn’t realize—I’m not a witch, I can’t do magick. I thought you were just giving me a storage tattoo. What if I give you a heart attack? Has this—” I drop my voice, even though we’re alone. “Has this ever been done before? Is it legal?”

Arlo smiles fondly at me. “Quentin, relax. I wouldn’t offer this to you if I didn’t trust in you, or myself. It will hardly affect me, I promise. And the spells … think of it as an extension of my own magick. You won’t be able to do anything I can’t, and like I said, it’s minor stuff. Light cantrips, shields. Some charms. But you don’t have to do this if you don’t want—”

I slide out of the chair and wrap my arms around Arlo’s shoulders in a weird, half-hug to accommodate Bosko and my freshly inked arm. I sniff, doing my best to hold back tears. I rest my head on his shoulder, soaking in the feeling of Arlo’s big hand rubbing between my shoulder blades. “I do. Thank you, Arlo. Thank you.”

Bosko chirrups and Arlo sighs, emptying his chest. “It’s the least I can do, Quentin. Now come on, let’s get you fixed up.”

I lean back, sitting on the edge of the chair. I nod, wiping at my eyes. “Okay. I’m ready.” I hold my arm out for him, unsure what the hell I’m getting into. I’m really doing this, aren’t I?

Arlo cradles my forearm in his hand, then lays very real cream and gold feather over the inkwell embedded into my skin. It nearly covers the whole thing, and I wonder how this is going to work. He lowers his lips, hovering a mere inch or two above the feather. He fills his lungs with air, and magick I suspect by the way his eyes alight, holds it for a moment, then exhales.

Emerald, fluorescent light overtakes the feather, transforming it from reality into metaphor. Heat settles into my skin, a dull warmth that explodes like a supernova. I groan, crashing into Arlo as I curl over my arm. A hand settles on the back of my neck, squeezing tight, which keeps me from slumping forward anymore. The light dissolves into my skin, sparking as the last bits of magick break through flesh.

I breathe.

And then it’s over, the pain ebbing like the tide.

Arlo holds onto me while I breathe, adjusting. There’s a distinct something different in my body, but I can’t pinpoint where or what it is. Like a fleeting itch, or the jarring sensation of hitting your funny bone. I stare down at my arm, slowly flexing my hand open and closed. There’s only the subtle shift of ink on flexing skin, shiny despite the dim light filtering in through the cracks of our huddle. Bosko’s feather is the only source of color in the piece, more vivid than it was in life, on the verge of unnaturally vibrant.

I close my eyes and search my body, hunting for the origin of this new feeling. I imagine holding a string in my hands, chasing its length through my limbs until reaching my chest. I stiffen and Arlo gives me space, hand falling from my neck.

I open my eyes and clear my throat, raw and aching like I’ve smoked a pack of cigarettes. “My heart. I can feel you there. Can you feel me?”

Arlo rests a hand over his heart, his expression soft. “Yes.”

“Does it … hurt?”

That softness breaks into a small smile. “No, not at all. Go on, do you remember what I said?”

Normally, I would draw up something clever or snappy, but I’m too overcome with emotions to find any. I nod, bringing the shaky fingers of my right hand to my left forearm. I draw a series of circles around the pile of books, clockwise twice, counter-clockwise once, then a tap in the center.

I thought I would feel it, but sound heralds my first conjuration. The rustle of pages floating through the air, the whisper of words as they promise knowledge and secrets. Light follows, transforming the black linework into bright silver intermingled with the faintest hint of green, evidence that Arlo’s magick is no longer fully his, not while it’s within me. The cloud of light flows down my forearm like a river, spilling into my open and waiting palm.

And finally, as the light transforms imagination into reality, I feel it. Perpetual, everlasting warmth. It starts in my arm, coursing upwards until reaching my heart where it’s pumped throughout the rest of my body. I thought magick would feel unbalanced for me, wild and restless. I’ve felt his magick before, when using his travel stones and otherwise. I know that it’s warm and comforting.

But this is different. This warmth ….

It feels like Elochian.

A weight settles into my hand, slow and easy. I blink away tears, focusing on the familiar leather bound journal in my hands. It’s more detailed than the books in my tattoo are, and I don’t need Arlo to tell me it’s a manifestation of my deepest desire. It’s not the original, I’ll never get that back, but seeing such a perfect replica of my first journal mends a crack in my heart.

Arlo says, “It’s beautiful, Quentin. You did so well.”

I hug the journal, not caring how pathetic I look. Head bowed, I say, “My father gave it to me. I—it—my mother burnt the original years ago.”

“You must miss him.”

I look up at Arlo, finding only sincerity in his eyes barely alight with magick. He never had a father at all, at least I have fond memories of mine. There are so many things I want to say to him, and so many things I want to hear. I swallow, looking down at the journal. Carefully, I spread the pages.

It’s untouched. There are no notes in the margins. No loopy, near indecipherable words. No crossed out ideas or circled thoughts. It’s clear, ready for a new beginning.

I close the book, then repeat the process I did to conjure it in the first place. Only once it fades into ink do I feel like I can breathe properly.

“You’re a natural,” Arlo says.

“Sure.” I smile, if only a little. I duck my head and rub at my collarbone, suddenly overcome with uncalled for loneliness. Elochian said his meeting would go late into the night, and he wouldn’t be by. My heart aches at the idea of going home to an empty apartment. And it’s not just him I look forward to seeing, Michael and I have become good friends. When Elochian and Michael are there, the place feels like home.

Arlo takes his phone out of his jeans pocket, then shrugs. “You know, Arche said he’d stay with the boys until nine, and we’ve got a few hours to kill. Feel like visiting the Magpie?”

I chuckle. “Are you asking me out for drinks, Arlo Rook?”

“Well I think this calls for celebration, don’t you?” He gestures vaguely to all of me, and I laugh. He smiles, pleased.

“Well, when you put it that way.”

The lights are harsher than I remember.

I sit with Arlo at the bar, spinning a glass full of amber whiskey and melting ice. It’s busy, but not fully packed. I love the hanging garden, the soft emerald velvet of the stools and the kind smiles you find everywhere. For being a club, the place feels almost like … like home. Music thumps throughout the place, electrifying my chest with every beat. It’s fast, made for a more sensual kind of dance. I glance over my shoulder, watching couples grind on the dance floor and singles courting potential partners. There are more angels in here than last time, I think. 

I haven’t been back since the last time we were all here together, and I think the same can be said for Arlo. There’s reasons for both of us to avoid the bar, besides the fact our gatherings revolve around food instead of alcohol. I think for Arlo, it’s memories of Thatch. For me, it’s memories of shame.

“Are you alright?”

I jump at the sound of Elochian’s coarse voice on the other side of the door. I groan, knocking my head back against the bathroom stall. The music I was once a part of echoes throughout the bathroom, and my ears ring from being on stage. I manage to sputter out, “F—fine. Just—ugh. Too much to drink. Go ahead, I’m oh—fuck. Okay. I’m okay.”

Internally, I scream, ‘I am definitely not okay. Please leave so I can calm down.’

Elochian shifts on his feet, fancy shoes scraping against even fancier tile. Strained, he says, “I can’t. It’s … Tobias’ magick is too much.”

“You’re hard too?”

Absolute, dead silence.

Oh dear Gods. Allow me to wither and perish on the spot. Please.

“Um … no. I don’t—that’s not it. He’s my archangel.”

“Oh,” I say like I completely understand, even though I don’t.

Tobias? An archangel? His?

My brain is a fog of lust, embarrassment, and confusion. I want (need) Elochian to go (stay). Silence filled with unsaid things and tension thicker than blood chokes me. He knows damn well what my actual problem is, and he’s still just standing there! Maybe he wants …

He says, “I’m—if you—I—”

But it’s too late.

The fleeting fantasy of Elochian coming into the stall and helping me out lasts for only a second. A second of that in my mind is more than enough. I cover my mouth, doing my best to suffocate the moan that escapes me.

And then another silence follows, this one a million times worse than the first.

Elochian leaves, and I slump to the floor in embarrassment.

“It feels different here,” Arlo says, bringing me back to the moment. His hands are wrapped around a glass of water, and the flashing lights play in his mellow golden eyes.

I rub at my eye, smudging my glasses. “How?”

He casually glances around, and I follow his gaze. Through my glasses the world is a sea of color. Auras pale and vibrant, calm and wild, melded with others and isolated. Testing a theory, I slide my glasses down my nose a little. The incoming headache intensifies, but the auras remain. So, I can see them without the glasses, but they help with the strain.

In a low tone, Arlo says, “It’s hard to explain. Places can hold power, depending on how they’re treated. It feels … like the roots have gone deeper, and stronger, but there’s …” he trails off, eyes settling back on me.

“Termites,” I say, because I can feel it.

Arlo stares at me, expression unreadable. “Yes.”

I scrub at my eyes with both hands, pushing my glasses up into my hair. “What should we do?” My palms dig deeper and deeper into my eyes, unable to soothe the burning.

Firmly, but not unkindly, Arlo says, “Quentin, look at me.” My hands fall into my lap, and my glasses fall back down onto my nose, askew. Arlo fixes them for me, then rests a hand along the side of my throat. He frowns. “Are you feeling okay?”

I shake my head, and I wince against the pain ricocheting against the walls of my skull. I’m no stranger to tension headaches, but this feels like one on steroids. Is it a migraine? “No, my head. Hurts.”

Arlo searches my eyes for a moment. He says, “Okay. I’ll leave a message with one of Lochian’s people, then we’ll go back to your place.”

I nod the barest amount. “Okay.”

He hesitates. “Why don’t you come with me?”

I glare at him. “I’ll be fine. Just go.”

He glances at the security guard at the other end of the bar, then back to me. “I’ll be right back.”

Irritated by his mothering, I pick up my glass, throwing back the now room temperature whiskey. By the time I set it down, Arlo’s gone. I run a hand through my hair, unsettled and full of emotions I can’t name. I can’t remember the last time I felt so on edge and unmoored. Is it because of the tattoo, my unrightful claim to magick? 

I tap the counter and the bartender quickly attends me, glancing in Arlo’s direction as he pours another whiskey. “Trouble in paradise?” He asks, and I take him in for the first time. A demon, short in stature and his wings spelled away. His eyes are uncanny, and my heart jumps at the familiarity I find there. Not in how they look, but the focus and intent behind them. Like staring into the eyes of a predator.

“No, long day, that’s all. I haven’t uh … seen you here before.”

The bartender chuckles, sliding my drink towards me. He rests his elbows on the counter, cupping his chin in his hands. “Figures you wouldn’t remember me.”

I shift in my seat, subtly leaning back. “I’m sorry, do we know each other?”

“I’ve worked here a few months.” He titters. “I used to see you every now and again with that witch.” He spits the word. “And all your friends. You were so pretty playing the drums, I liked hearing you. But ever since that night, it’s like you disappeared. I’ve missed you.”

I laugh nervously. “Sorry, I don’t remember.”

He leans closer, and every nerve in my body screams at me to move, but I can’t. He whispers, “It’s just like you, to disappear without thinking of the damage you leave behind.” Color swirls in his eyes, the black giving way to toxic blue. “But I know now that it wasn’t your fault. He’s kept you away from me.”

He cups my cheek, his hand calloused and cold. Tears well in my eyes, and I try with all my might to punch him in the face. All I manage to do is curl my hands into fists, nails biting my palms. He brings his lips to my ear and whispers, “Don’t worry baby, I’m here now. Let me take you home. Doesn’t that sound nice? Haven’t you missed me?”

“Y—” I choke back the word, and his hand leaves my face. In a blink, he’s on this side of the counter, taking my hand in his. Does no one see him? See this? His fingers dig into the wounds that my own nails carved, and hot tears fall down my cheeks. “P—please.”

He smiles. “Oh, I missed the way you beg. Come now.”

He pulls, and I go (un)willingly. My feet touch down on the floor. I stagger, my gait unsteady and bones resistant to his dark magick. I open my mouth to scream Arlo’s name, but nothing comes out. I can only watch on in horror as he leads me towards the back exit, unable to turn my head or look anywhere else but directly ahead.

Why does he look like that? Where is Elochian’s security? Where is—

“Quentin!” A hand falls on my shoulder, yanking me backwards.

Fresh air and free will rushes me like a tidal wave. I crash against Arlo, gasping for both. “He—” I extend a shaky hand in my kidnapper’s direction, but he’s long gone. Anger and fear war for dominance, but I stumble through both and say, “River. H—he had me. He was t—taking me. I c—couldn’t m—move.”

Arlo wraps his arms around me, and we disappear right then and there. I hold on tight to him, succumbing to tears as time and space bend around us. They are not tears of fear and melancholy, though.

No, these are burning tears of rage.