A Stepping Stone

Quentin

“No, there’s been almost nobody in. Why? Are you expecting someone?” Arlo asks, distracted.

I rub at my forehead. “No. The opposite, actually. I … if anyone comes by asking for me, please don’t … don’t tell him anything.”

Arlo is quiet for a few seconds, and when he speaks again he is deathly serious. “Are you in trouble, Q?” When it’s my turn to be quiet, he says, “I’ve got your back, Quen. But I can’t help if I don’t know what’s going on.”

“I think … I think I might be. But I don’t know. It could be nothing.”

“Well, how about we talk about it when you get back? And it makes you feel better, I can shore up the wards. Even more so if I have … details.”

A sense of false relief settles over my shoulders, temporarily relaxing my muscles. “Okay. Later. Are the roads bad?”

Arlo allows the tangent. “Yeah. But you’ve got a stone, right?”

“Yes, I just … wasn’t sure if Lochian might be coming. He’s got Michael with him.”

“Well, it’s supposed to get worse before it gets better. I’ve got plenty of room for people to crash, and the stone’s strong enough. Plus Silas has been stress baking all day, so there’s plenty of comfort food.”

“Okay. Thanks, Arlo.”

“Anything for you, Q. Be careful.”

“I will.”

I hang up the phone, feeling marginally better. I’ve managed to come this far with only the girls knowing about my life with River, and it’s not something I like to think about. Ever. I buried that time deep beneath the flesh and heart he used to bruise and break, and the shame that came with it. I don’t want to tell Arlo, and I most certainly don’t want Loch to know. I’m stronger now than I used to be, and I suddenly feel incredibly unsure. I can handle this on my own, can’t I?

But what if I can’t? What will River do when he finds me?

I shake my head, forcing myself to focus on the here and now. I run a hand through my hair, then let it slide down my chest, opposite my wildly racing heart. Fear and paranoia lingers under the surface of my skin, but I ignore it in favor of looking for Lochian. I look at the cafe counter, but he’s not there. Michael’s sitting by the door, sipping from a mug and watching me. When we connect gazes, they nod, then tilt their head to the right with a small smile.

I follow his movement, finding Elochian standing near the giant, arching bookcase that separates the cafe from the rows of bookshelves. His translucent jewel wings finished with those pretty gold and black swirls slowly open and close. His long, sleek hair is cast over his left shoulder, blocking his face from view. I like it when his hair is down, it reminds me of spilled ink. There’s always a few tiny braids intermingled into the rest though, even when it’s down. The moment I see him, something settles in me. Right now, everything’s okay.

My hand falls away from my chest, and my feet take over.

Despite the fact Arlo now technically owns Shh Elves, not much has changed. He is a distant manager and investor, allowing the establishment to run on its own, the same as Thatch did. The staff is the same, and so is the dark and eccentric decor. Enormous, intricate terrariums house gadol skulls, while others are home to giant snails with beautifully marked shells. I shudder at the sight of them.

There’s only been one crucial difference in Shh Elves.

On a stretch of wall beside the bookcase is a framed photograph of Thatch, which has captured Elochian’s attention. It’s a candid photo of Thatch standing in the yard at Cas and Bias’ house, hands in his pockets and a laugh pulling at his lips. It’s from the night we all spent together, Kitt took the picture.

 A small plaque rests beneath the silver frame and it reads, ‘Thatcher Gaillot, also known as Thatch Phantom, has been the owner of Shh Elves for over five centuries.’

Elochian scrutinizes the words inscribed there, then looks over his shoulder upon sensing my approach. He carries two disposable cups, the fingers of his right hand multi-task by clutching at a black paper bag, and his coat is slung over his left arm. To say he looks like a pack mule would be an understatement.

He holds out the cup that comes with the bag, his smile a tiny, shaking thing. “I haven’t eaten breakfast yet, and I figured there was a good chance you haven’t yet either. I got muffins for both of us. Don’t feel obligated to eat, though.”

“You’re not wrong. Thank you.” I take a sip, groaning at the warmth and taste of the heavenly apple cider. Shyly, I look up to him. “Did they have—”

Elochian smiles, and it lights up his whole face. I could stare at him forever, attempting to commit every unique facet of him to memory. The pale birthmarks on the right side of his face, extending beneath the collar of his shirt, are a vivid contrast to his soft brown skin. I'm pretty convinced it's his soulmark, and I wonder if any of our witch friends have seen it glow, what color it could be. Then again, with these freshly enchanted glasses of mine, I should be able to see soulmarks glow now. The golden lines inscribed across the high points of his cheeks. His nose, a strong curve that I want to trace my finger down, and then down to his thin lips, settling in the place small, but deep dimples form. He says, “Banana with chocolate chips? Yes.”

An uncalled for surge of affection comes upon me, and I fight the urge to run away from it. “You’re the best.”

His cheeks darken, and he shifts his gaze elsewhere. “I don’t know about that. What did Arlo have to say? It looks like his books are ready.”

“Books? Oh, right.” I hand Elochian back his phone, glancing over at Michael who gives us a little wave. “Are you in a hurry? Maybe we could … eat together? It’s been awhile.”

Elochian’s quiet smile stretches into an unrestrained grin, and it warms me up more than the cider ever could. “I’d like that. But let’s go back here.”

We walk through the archway side by side and pass through the main aisles in the same fashion. Elochian seems to be on the hunt, so I follow him until he picks a seemingly random reading nook. The small space is curtained off with peacock blue drapes, hiding bench seats separated by a worn table, and a narrow window which provides a splendid view of nothing but snow.

We sit across from each other, and thankfully Elochian wastes no time unveiling breakfast. Or lunch. I blink a few times. “What time is it?”

“One twenty-five. Or one thirty,” Elochian says without looking at his phone. He offers both muffins to me, and I take the one in his right hand.

“Really? It doesn’t feel that late. And you didn’t even look.”

Elochian gives me one of his signature dry glares. “It’s a superpower,” he says seriously, then bites into his muffin. I’m temporarily distracted by his fangs elongating as his mouth widens, and I abruptly drag my attention to my own food.

It’s not a secret that demons have fangs, but Elochian’s always kept his hidden. I’m pretty sure Elochian and … arousal don’t mix. But they were definitely elongated, and it’s just us …

I bite into my own muffin and glance at him again. The sight of incisors half the length of my pinky, but just as wide, pierce into the center of his muffin.

I spiral into a choking fit.

“Quentin?” Elochian stills, staring at me with alarm. His fangs recede, and his right one nicks his bottom lip as it does.

I trade food for cider and hold up a hand to settle him, or his wings, more-like. “Fine. W–wrong hole.” His eyes track my face, and I don’t know whether to point out the pinprick of blood on his lips. I don’t think he realized they were out, and I don’t want to embarrass him. “Really, I’m alright.”

“O—kay.”

We eat in somewhat content silence after that, but my mind is a vicious whirlwind. Is Elochian attracted to me? Did he … see someone else before coming to meet me? I don’t know how their fangs works exactly, only that shedim venom’s main purpose is to act as an aphrodisiac for mating, and that they can be triggered by arousal. Do they remain distended after sex, or … dentist appointments? I’m really hoping he had a dentist appointment before this, not sex.

After finishing my muffin, I take a long drink of my cider to drown my thoughts. When I finish, I find Elochian watching me with rapt intensity, his body practically frozen. I tilt my head, irrationally worried that he heard my internal battle. “What?”

Umber eyes transfixed on me, he slowly leans forward and wipes the corner of my mouth with his thumb. Air catches in my throat, which startles Elochian from his daze. “You had chocolate on your face.” He leans back, wiping his hand off on his pants.

Distantly, I think of how much a waste of that was.

“Oh. Thanks.”

“How … how is your writing going?” Elochian starts off slow, recomposing himself by the end of his question. In a more teasing tone, he says, “Your message was exceptionally interesting. I thought you were working on a holiday romance or something.”

I wave him off, cheeks flushed. Right. Romance. Just the thing I’m trying to get off my mind.

“I am … but that’s not what I was working on last night. I was rambling, and it was late. I’m not sure if any of it will be any good.” I take another sip of my cider, which does nothing to calm the jittery feeling in my heart. When Elochian doesn’t say anything, only stares at me expectantly, I hedge. “It’s … different. From what I normally write.”

He leans ahead once more, elbows resting on the table. His cup is centered between his loosely clasped hands, which are at the perfect halfway point between him and me. The candles in the antler chandelier situated above us flicker, illuminating the golden lines embedded into Elochian’s cheekbones, and a certain look to his eyes that I don’t see very often. I don’t have a name for it, but I wish that I did.

My own hands are inches from his, and my fingertips gently drum the table in a familiar pattern. My cup of cider rests off to the side, forgotten. When did that happen?

He says, “Tell me.”

My fingers pause their drumming, and I take a moment to breathe.

Elochian Adrastus’ full attention is all encompassing. Something I secretly wish for, and can never handle when I have it.

I exhale, mentally preparing to word vomit and doing my best to prevent it.

With much more shyness than I would have if I were telling Elochian the plot to my usual books, I say, “Most people don’t have a great whirlwind romance that’s an end all, be all. Or maybe they did, in the beginning, but for one reason or another it didn’t work out. But that doesn’t … that doesn’t make those relationships less important. A person’s first may not be their last, but that doesn’t take away from the impact of that first love.”

“Like a stepping stone,” Elochian says, not breaking eye contact with me once. Artune, he’s so intense.

“Right, yeah. That’s the bit I was working on last night. I don’t have all the pieces, just a vague idea. A character, kind of. I don’t know, I think we need more stories that focus on the big picture. The stepping stones, and the person they bring you to.”

Elochian smiles, then looks away. The movement hollows me out, and I have no idea why. When he turns his attention back to me, that safety guard is back. He’s still friendly, but there’s … I don’t know, distance. He says, “I like it. I think you’re onto something.”

And then he changes everything. His fingers twitch, and his black painted nails trace against the back of my own fingers.

Breathlessly, I ask, “You think so?”

“You always are. Why stop trusting your gut now? It’s a different audience, but why not?”

“Why not … right.”

In a moment of rare courage, I slide my fingers in the precious space between his. Elochian’s breathing is the loudest thing in the room, second only to my racing heart. His eyes fixate on our hands, but they jump to mine when I whisper, “I missed you, too.”

“What?” He asks, fingers tightening, locking mine into place. For the first time in over a week, I feel truly grounded again.

“First thing this morning, or whenever it was, you said you missed me. I missed you, too. I didn’t realize how much I’d gotten used to seeing you in the morning, until you weren’t there anymore.”

“I … I feel that way, too.” Elochian steals a deep breath from the intimate space between us. There’s only the softly glowing candelabra overhead, the snow trapped against the window, and the old table between us. The curtains hide us from the rest of the place, and I’ve never been more certain that this is the time. A vague sort of desperation alights my nerves, like this might be the only chance I’ll ever have to tell Lochian how I feel.

“Lochian, I care about you, and there’s something I want to ask you—”

“Quentin, I—”

Michael parts the curtains, startling both of us. Elochian’s hand jerks away from mine, and for a moment mine remains outstretched, reaching for him. Stiffly, Michael says, “I apologize Sir, but there's a problem. Code Green.”

Elochian sighs, then stands and straightens the sleeves of his shirt, a move that would be much more impressive if it were a suit instead of a cashmere sweater. “I’m surprised we had this long. I'll be right there, give us a moment, please.”

“Of course,” Michael says, then takes off.

“You're leaving?” I ask, standing with shaky knees. I feel robbed, empty. Cold.

Elochian takes a step towards me. “I’m afraid so. But Misfits Night is in a few days, I'll see you then. I promise.”

Then, he surprises me.

He reaches forward, and his fingertips skim the side of my throat. He leans in, and I’m helpless to do anything but allow him to gently pull me closer. Elochian Adrastus kisses my cheek, then leaves me behind without a word.

And I'm left all alone. I reach up, touching the fleeting kiss on my cheek with lipstick stained fingers.

I land at home with a heavy thud, the books piled in my arms nearly crash onto the floor but I manage to keep them safe. I'm assaulted by the scent of chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry all at once. A scream is the next to register, along with metallic clanking and crying. Arlo’s voice is louder than everything else, calm and even, infused with a certain type of magick that always makes my knees go weak.

“Breathe, Felix, breathe. I'm right here.”

Felix kneels on the floor beside the pastry case, hands over his ears and pain written all over his face. Through my enchanted glasses, I watch Felix’s aura as it pulsates in starburst fashion, its colors a mixture of blinding pink and a contrasting dark blue. Pans full of steaming cakes swirl around him and Arlo like a tornado. Arlo kneels with Felix, hands resting on his shoulders.

I wonder what it feels like to be a witch and to be so close to such an obvious source of power. Not that Arlo knows what Felix is, or if he does suspect Felix’s a reservoir, he hasn’t said anything. Perhaps he feels the same way I do. Acknowledging what Felix is can only bring about his doom.

Silas is nowhere to be seen, and neither are any patrons. I stand stock still until Felix's attack passes, which only takes a couple more minutes. My arms ache by the time all the pans crash to the ground, throwing cake and crumbs everywhere.

Felix crumples to the side and Arlo catches him, immediately sweeping the boy close to his chest. He stands effortlessly, looking at me with exhaustion bruising his eyes. “Can you go check on Silas? I think he’s in the kitchen. I’ll be right back, taking him up.”

I nod, saving my questions for later. I set the pile of books down on a random table and do as he says, moving quickly. When I near the kitchen, I slow down, listening for any telltale signs of Silas in distress. When I push the swinging door inwards, I find Silas pacing back and forth. He barely looks at me, and certainly doesn’t stop. His belt chains swing against his thighs, and a silver necklace rattles against the front of his hoodie.

“I'm fine.” His shoulders rise to his ears. “I'm fine,” he says again, half as convincing as the first time.

“Okay. Do you want me to go?”

 He stops pacing, turning silent and still for a moment. His hands remain deep in his pockets, and his black outfit is covered in flour and who knows what else. “He passed out, didn’t he?” He grits out.

“He did.”

Silas groans, taking back off again at a furious pace. “One minute everything was fine, we were just standing there, waiting, talking. And the next minute, everything metal in the kitchen started flying towards us. He ran out in a panic, which made it all worse, everything started coming out of the ovens, hot as fuck. That’s when I started yelling, which made it worse. I couldn't help it. I tried.” He hums loudly, tearing a hand out of his pocket to skate through his hair. A sharp flash of cool blue light overtakes his face, then disappears just as quickly as it came.

“It'll get better,” I say, and even I can hear the lie. If I’m right, it won’t get better. Not at all. “It’s growing pains.”

“Everyone's saying that isn't actually making it better. I know what growing pains are, I’ve had them. Arlo’s had them. This is not that, but everyone is choosing to go with the easiest explanation, and it’s Felix who’s suffering for it.” He thrusts a hand in my direction, towards the door.

“Silas, we aren’t going to let anything—”

He sighs with such exasperation it could blow me over, then brushes past me and takes off. The door swings harshly in his wake, and I feel utterly useless. I give him a few minutes to retreat, then go out into the cafe. I check the sign, finding that it's been flipped to closed, then set to work on cleaning up the cake catastrophe.

Except, there’s no mess. The dirty pans are neatly stacked on the counter, and all the crumbs and dislodged pieces of food have found their way into the trash can. Must be Silas couldn’t help himself, his magick hates clutter. I carry the dirty pans into the kitchen and fill up the sink, then begin the mind numbing process of washing dishes. After the day I’ve had, mind numbing is a welcome thing.

To be honest, I agree with Silas. Tobias isn’t able to mentor Felix anymore, and there’s only so much Arlo can do. But what else is there? Arlo asked me to speak with Arche regarding Felix, and I’ve passed on message after message, but the astrophysicist has ignored them all. He’s the only witch in Levena known to have more than one specialty, and I’ve been trying to think of how to broach the subject of mentoring Felix, but when you’re approaching someone who distrusts people on a general basis anyway, it makes the whole thing difficult. The thing is, Arlo actually knows him, but the whole ‘mutually being traumatized by Leon’ thing keeps them from talking, apparently. Arlo’s shut out everyone else who went through what he did, except for Tobias. Even that development is recent, though.

My mind wanders away from that problem, moving right on to the next.

What was Elochian going to say? Quentin, I want you to get the hell away from me? Quentin, I think you’re great but you’re being weird and this isn’t something I want with you?

Quentin … I like you, too?

It feels like he does. He seems to genuinely enjoy being with me. Despite the fact we haven’t seen each other a whole lot lately, today it was like no time’s passed at all. I sigh, drying my hands. I’ve got no shot with him, and it’s probably for the best that we were interrupted. He can be with anyone he wants, and I’m just a boring human with a teaching degree.

I leave the kitchen in favor of the cafe, dimming lights as I go. I brew a small pot of coffee, losing myself to time and thoughts while I wait. I pour it into a mug I choose at random and load it with sugar, then investigate the books that Arlo had me deliver.

I was so clusterfucked before that I didn’t paid any attention to what they were. Could be anything with the way his mind’s been running lately, grasping for straws. I take a seat at the table I had unloaded my cargo unto, then take a thin book from the top of the stack. Ancient Architecture of the Northern Region.

I set it aside, then take another that’s much heavier. Ancient Gods of Min.

I tilt my head at that. There’s Min Temple up north in the frigid, near inhospitable steppe that only the most devout of religious nuts endure to complete pilgrimage. Thanks to Thatch’s grave, we now know of a Min Isle, but only in name. I’ve never heard of a place described as simply Min. I open the book, studying what’s inside. Most of it I’ve read before, references to the Creator Gods and their children, the Caretakers, but I stumble upon a couple of sections that are new to me.

Creation in Waves

It is common knowledge that each of the Caretakers were allowed to create their own children, but what many people do not know is they were limited to their regions of influence. The duty of the Caretakers is to tend to the universe, each from their respective places of birth. The only time Caretakers are able to leave their regions and associate with one another are during the spring equinox. Let’s take a closer look at the waves of creation, starting with the one that started it all.

The Wave of the Creators, also known as the First Wave, created what are known as the Ancient Races.

Typhine created the Elves in Mythhaven, the Mayimet in the southern region, the exact origin unknown, and the Titans in the seas.

Ulena created the Shaddai in Agia, the Dragons in Dridale, and the Gadol along the northern coast of Min.

Hizoh created the Pitriyot in Gia, the Treants in Rosevein, and the Fae in Faygale.

Ogmes created the Behema in the middle region, their exact origin unknown, the Orcs in Kilbrook, and the Shafan in Jaqul.

The Creators in the First Wave were global, to say the least. The Caretaker’s Wave was more extensive, despite the location restrictions, and created the beginning of the world as we know it. The races from this time period are referred to as the Primeval Races.

Malakim were created in Brinecliff, by Ylos.

Shedim were created in Brinecliff, by Mithys.

Katan were created in Northgrave, by Mishlat.

Centaurs were created in the Mid-Southern region, exact origin unknown, by Emolite.

Vampires were created in Dimshear, by Awah.

Krakeni were created in the seas near Kilbrook, by Kiroli.

Merfae were created in Pearlholde, by Ryvara.

Qieren were created in West Shire, by Soleyar.

Khatool were created in the Southern Region, exact origin unknown, by Artune.

Tzipor were created in the Southern Region, exact origin unknown, by Yrlan.

Last, but not least, is the Third Wave, which has led to the creation of the Modern Races.

Sirens were created in the Faygale Bay, by Loborn.

Tannin were created in the Southern Region, exact origin unknown, by Nicen.

Faun were created in the Min Region, exact origin unknown, by Da’haut.

Humans were created in the Min Region, exact origin unknown, by Dinphine.

Selth were created in Northgrave, by Xvaldin.

What we can take from this information is that Da’haut and Dinphine are Caretakers of Min. Some scholars contest that Brinecliff and Mythhaven were once part of Min, also known as the Northern Region, which would include Ylos, Mishlat, and Awah as Caretakers of the land. They cite local ancient maps as proof, but each map has the Min Border in a different place from the other.

God Pairings

During the spring equinox, the Caretakers were known to visit each other, partaking in romantic and platonic relations to celebrate. It is a topic of debate whether a Fourth Wave of Creation will be a result of this, but many scholars believe the Gods do not possess bodies capable of birth, and their methods of creation are far different from our own. The following romantic pairings are speculation based on cultural legends.

Ryvara + Soleyar

Xvaldin + Artune + Loborn

Kiroli + Nicen

Da’haut + Dinphine

Ylos + Mishlat

Yrlan + Mithys+ Awah + Emolite

I’m deep in the book by the time Arlo joins me with his own cup of coffee in hand. He sits beside me, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes. For a moment he just sits there, one hand balled up into a fist in his lap, the other holds onto his mug for dear life. Thatch’s cup. I continue reading, not feeling the urge to add more chaos to his mind right now. My knee aches, and I rub at it with my free hand.

This is how we spend most evenings. Sitting together and reading. Conspiring. Theorizing. Usually the boys are with us. On Misfit Nights everyone is here, socializing and researching in equal measures. There’s never anything else but this. I love it. This place, this people. Everything has been going so well, and being with Elochian, romantic or not, has made me feel settled in a way that I haven’t in years. I’ve deceived myself into thinking I can have all of it without repercussions.

The smart thing to do would be to run. To leave without telling anyone, and never come back. I’ve done it twice, and I could do it again. I could work anywhere.

But I’ve never left behind people who loved me. I don’t know if I could.

“Thank you, for the coffee. And the books. And … for everything, Q. I don’t think I tell you enough how much I appreciate you.”

I lift my head, looking over at Arlo. He watches me, his gaze tired instead of sharp. I slide my glasses up my nose. “You don’t need to do that. I know. Do you … need to talk?”

He takes off his beanie and rests it on his knee, then takes a sip of his coffee. Quietly, he says, “No. Not right now.”

I nod. “Okay.”

We sit there in companionable silence, watching the heavy snowfall and the exceptionally quiet world darken a shade at a time. The days are short, night creeps onto the scene at around four in the evening now, and it doesn’t get light until almost nine in the morning. Winter always makes me feel a certain type of way, and after spending these months with Arlo, I can say it seems to make him feel the same.

Despite the fact Witch House is perfectly liveable and practically all of their things are there, Arlo and the boys stay here most of the time. If I’m not working, I’m usually at home, and there hasn’t been time for social meetups besides the weekly one, which happens here. I can’t … I don’t remember the last time Arlo left the cafe. He does all his business from home, and the new glass case which is usually full of witch things, from charms to medicines, potions to enchantments, is nearly empty.

He had shifted around the cashier’s area and put it not far from the pastry case, so you could easily look into both. I thought his hedge business was doing well since he gave it a physical storefront, but maybe it’s doing too well, and he needs to get back in the kitchen now that he’s using up his reserves. But that would require time, time he would rather dedicate elsewhere.

After a bit, I test the waters. I shut the religious text, then poke at the book on architecture. “This seems interesting.”

Arlo sets his coffee down on the table, then rubs his temple. “Yeah. I was curious what Levena used to look like, what the houses would have looked like. I thought it might’ve been a lead to Old Levena, or Min Isle … whatever it was.”

“Interesting. I’ve been going through this.” I hold up the Ancient Gods book. “Nothing about Thatch, but there’s a lot of talk about the Caretaker Gods, where they lived and who they loved. Did you know that Min Temple is almost eight thousand years old? It’s one of the first in the Northern Region, and still the largest. Also, I think Min is the name used to describe the Northern Region, which might have been bigger back then. Here, look.”

Arlo slowly takes the book from me, eyes tainted with a green tinge. “Really? Do you think … do you think Thatch was ever there? At the Temple?”

I shrug. “I don’t know, I don’t know why he would be. He was kind of an atheist, wasn’t he?”

Arlo chuckles, and even though it’s not a real laugh, I take the small victory. “He believed in them, just didn’t like them.” Arlo’s face falters, and he sets the book down. “I was so excited for these, and now …” He shakes his head. “You know where I was during Felix’s attack?”

I wince. “Buried in the nest?”

“Exactly. Literally trapped beneath all that shit.” He gestures to the booth that we all once shared, but now it’s a mountain of books, boxes of paperwork, and to put it nicely, crap. You can’t even see the table anymore. “I know I've got my head in the sand. But I can't—to stop looking feels like I’m breaking a promise. I don't know what to do.”

I rest a hand on his arm. “I can't honestly say what I would do if I were you. He was my friend, too, Arlo. But I know juggling all these new businesses of yours, worrying about Felix, worrying about Leon, it’s a lot. No one's saying you have to stop looking, but … I don't know. I don't know what to say, because I don't think I could stop.”

Arlo sniffs, wiping at his eyes. He lays his hand over mine and leans over, resting his head on my shoulder. He whispers, “Thank you for being honest. Loch told me last night that I’m being an idiot.”

“If you went to him for advice, it’s because you knew he was going to call you an idiot and wanted him to.”

Arlo sits up and stares at me. Something like faint amusement crosses his features. “Well, aren’t you a know-it-all.”

I laugh. “You know it’s true.”

He shrugs. “I guess so. Are you going to tell me what’s going on with this trouble of yours?”

I stiffen. It’s a quick thing, but Arlo catches it before I can relax. “No. It’s nothing.”

“Didn’t sound like nothing earlier.”

“I thought it was something, but it’s not. If it does become something, I’ll let you know.”

He stares at me for a moment, and when I don’t crack, he goes on. “You better. Also, that was really fucking confusing and my brain hurts. I think I’m going to check on Felix and turn in. Silas probably won’t come out of his room for the rest of the night, he’s another one who’s pissed at me.” Arlo sighs, sliding his beanie back on. “I already closed up, but—”

The bells chime. Arlo mutters, “But I didn’t lock the door yet.” Raising his voice, he calls, “We’re closed!”

A man steps inside, perhaps my height, but much thinner. He wears an eyepatch, a leather jacket not dissimilar to Arlo’s. He has snow-filled brunette curls which go well past his shoulders. He looks like a character from a book cover, not an actual person. Despite Arlo’s words, the man walks towards us.

We stand, meeting the man halfway across the cafe. He says, “I know, but I’m not here for coffee. I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time, I’m Finnegan. Finnegan Wroughtfern.”

“The journalist,” Arlo says dryly, crossing his arms.

“And the chief editor of the Radickal Magickal Gazette, a lesser known newspaper with more truth than you’ll find in today’s tabloids. I’m doing a piece on Thatch Phantom, and I was hoping for an interview with you.”

Arlo’s eyes flash green, and I mentally begin the countdown before he fries the guy. I stay quiet, more curious than anything. Why did this guy pick today of all days? The storm was supposed to get better, sure, but it definitely didn’t. It’s a nightmare out there.

Arlo says, “I see. As I said, we’re not open, and I am not in the mood for interrogation. Good evening, sir.”

Finnegan looks to me for help, and I say, “Nope.”

He looks back to Arlo, resolve straightening his spine. “Please don’t misunderstand. I’m not here to talk about the Game, but rather the man behind it.”

“And still, I am not interested.”

Finnegan reaches into his coat pocket. “Even if I were to tell you Nightingale sent me?” He retrieves a large black card and holds it up, revealing detailed golden linework that shines beneath the dim lights. It’s hard to tell from here, but I think the design is a skull with a bird sitting atop it. I’ve never heard of this ‘Nightingale,’ but it’s clear by Arlo’s stiff posture that he has.

Finally, and with a bit of rasp, he asks, “And what business do they have with someone like you?”

Finnegan shrugs, offering the card to Arlo. “A personal investment, we’ll say. Regardless of whether you want to meet with me, they want to meet with you.”

Arlo narrows his eyes, and his aura crackles as he steps forward to take the card. “I’ll think about it. As for you, my answer has not changed.”

Finnegan nods once. “It seems we have reached an impasse, then. Thank you for your time, Mr. Rook, and I apologize for bothering you.”

Arlo says nothing.

The man turns to leave and an urge to speak up washes over me. I look between the man’s retreating back and Arlo, but no words come to fruition. This isn’t my decision. Isn’t my business, really, but here I am, right in the middle of it.

But Finnegan says what I can’t.

He stops at the door, hand coming to a rest on the knob. He looks back at us and says, “I believe we have an obligation to right history, Mr. Rook. I know enough of Mr. Phantom to know that he is owed that, and there is no one better than you to tell his story. You can keep it to yourself if you’d like, but this is history in the making. Someone will fill in the blanks, but the question is; will it be the truth?”

A flash of ozone and green rushes the atmosphere, then dissipates just as quickly as it came. The bell chimes, and I turn to Arlo. “Arlo, I—”

He’s already gone.

I sigh, then lock the front door. A seconds long hum settles into the bones of the house, then the wards click as audibly as the metal lock itself.

Safe.