Sweet, Secret Relief

Elochian

Wind tainted with ice shreds my cheeks and tangles my hair. Begrudgingly, I glance over at Michael. He walks with his hands in his pockets, not a care in the world. When he catches me looking, he smirks.

“Cold, Sir?”

"Get it over with.”

“Hm?”

“You were right.”

“I said no such thing, Sir. I merely suggested that heading out during a freak storm might not be pleasant, especially when Mr. Matsdotter is clearly safe.”

“There we go, that’s the warm condescension I was looking for.” A few paces after the midpoint of the landbridge, I add, “I just need to see him for myself. I had—I didn’t sleep well.”

Becoming more serious, Michael asks, “Have the terrors returned, Sir?”

I focus on the ice patches ahead, thick in the well trodden valleys of the road. “It was a new one,” I say carefully. “Everything was different, and it was—it was Quentin instead. The end result was the same, I—” I suck in a breath, unable to fully voice the horror that was Quentin’s mangled body in my hands.

The worst part of it was his smile, bloody and genuine. With broken, jagged fingers, he caressed my face and told me he loved me.

Michael says, “We’re here.”

I look up, squinting through the ice and wind. We’ve long since cleared the initial tree line, and are now face to face with the cottage hosting lit candles in its numerous windows. Bosko flies overhead, then disappears into the trees. Michael rests a hand on my shoulder, and I look over at him.

We stare at each other, speaking without words.

Him, promising unending loyalty and a desire to not only keep me safe, but Quentin too. Whether it’s because of who Quentin is to me, or the fact he cares for the man on a personal level, I can feel it. He thinks of Quentin as ours.

And then there’s me, finally making a godsdamned decision.

The front door opens, interrupting us. Quentin stands there, dressed in fine slacks and a thick turtleneck. The cuffs of the billowing sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, and his fingers are dusted in white. His hair is wet, combed back in that way that makes him look professional. He’s got his wood framed glasses on again, and for some reason that thought replays in my head.

He breaks into a smile upon seeing me, overwhelming every thought and worry. He moves towards me, and I lurch forward in response. We meet in the middle, and it’s so effortless the way his arms settle around my neck, mine around his waist. Air escapes me in a harsh exhalation, but I don’t care. I hold him tight, lifting him off the ground a little with the force of my relief.

“Lochian,” he murmurs against my shoulder.

“I have a question for you Quentin, and I need to ask you now.” I blurt out, pulling back far enough to see his face. Hair and ice blows in front of my eyes, but I can’t let him go. Not yet.

He blinks, eyes wide. “Oh. Okay.”

“I’m throwing a masquerade ball next month. For Tobias. Well, partly for Tobias, but the point is, I was wondering if you might want to go. With me.”

Quentin inhales sharply, lips parting.

Quickly, I add, “As my date. It would be very proper and public, and with guaranteed bouts of societal torture. Everyone will want to know who you are. I’ve never … I’ve never had a public relationship. But I would like to. With you.”

He stares at me. “But we haven’t ...” He trails off, opting for a soft smile instead. “Yes. I would love that.”

“Quentin … you can be honest with me.”

He shrugs, cheeks darkening. “Alright … I’m not sure how I feel about that, considering we haven’t been on an actual date yet. Don’t get me wrong, I love the time we spend together back at the cafe, but I don’t know if I would consider any of it a … romantic date.”

“Oh,” I say, taken aback for a moment. I shake my head, laughing at myself.  “If I could borrow some of your honesty, I have to admit that to me, our time together is—I don’t view it as platonic.” I run my hands down his arms, and my fingers slide against his. When he squeezes once, snaring me, I have to remember to breathe.

I whisper, “Dot, this here … it sets me on fire. Dancing with you? It is only by Soleyar’s favor that I didn’t burn up into nothing more than ash and teeth. I haven’t felt this in a long, long time. I don’t know what to do with it. With you.”

“Oh. Lochian, I’m not …” He clears his throat, glancing around. We’re alone, accompanied only by a crystal dusted forest. Michael must have gone inside, they’re nowhere to be seen. Quentin licks his lips, and I’m distracted by how dry they are. “This is new to me, too. I’m not used to being with someone who—well, I’m just used to being wanted for other things. That being the focus.”

“Sex?”

He nods quickly. “To be clear, that’s not what I’m asking of you. I—I need to relearn a lot of things. I’ve never really, uh … been in a good relationship, one could say.” He winces, looking away. At the pinched look on his face, my wings go very, very still. I stare at this beautiful, wonderful man, wondering how such a thing is possible. Who could ever mistreat him?

Who indeed?

Instead of leading him further into bad memories, I bring him back to the moment. To us. I lift his hands to my lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the knuckles of each one. In a whisper, I admit a secret to him, and myself. “I think I want you to. Ask me. Not today, but someday. But it might not be off the table for me, as long as it’s not off the table for you.”

A chuckle bubbles in my throat at Quentin’s stunned expression, but I don’t allow it to surface. He shakes his head a little, staring at his knuckles. “I … yes. Not off the table for me, either. But I’m still yours, Lochian. Either way.”

His eyes rise to my lips, and my heart stalls.

I try to force it into motion. I can do this. I can. I’m ready.

But he pulls back, keeping one of my hands firmly captured in his. He nods to the house and says, “Come on, I’m surprised you haven’t started freaking out about my wet hair yet.”

“Well, now that you mention it.” I chuckle, ignoring the sweet, secret relief calming my panicked heart. “You’ll catch a cold like that, you know.”

“There it is.” He laughs, tugging me towards the house. Before we cross the threshold, he stops abruptly and leans close to my side, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Um, be mindful of Silas, ‘kay?”

“Is he alright?”

Quentin nods quickly. “Yeah, fine. Come on. Have you eaten?”

We step into the witch’s house, and I sigh. There’s something about Arlo’s innermost wards that make you feel like you’ve just come home after a long day on the road. The entire island is warded, but the house even more so. Altogether they are ten times more powerful than the shields surrounding the cafe, and I wonder how Arlo does it. Where does his power come from? How is he so endless?

“Lochian?” Quentin asks, brows furrowed.

“Hm? Oh, um—”

“He had more important things to do than eat this morning, dear Quentin,” Michael says, passing into the big den just before we do. They balance four plates of pancakes, somehow managing to serve them up on the coffee table without a fuss. He straightens, planting his hands on his hips. He scrutinizes Quentin and me. “And what’s your excuse?”

Quentin laughs. “You’re nosy, aren’t you? If you must know, I was inspiring the next generation. Thanks for ratting me out, Arlo.”

The witch laughs, putting his hands up. “I ratted out myself, who do you think the fourth plate is for?”

“Keeps it from getting wasted.” Silas grumbles, sitting beside Arlo on the big couch. His usually wild hair is braided away from his face, although the plaits are sleep worn and some white tendrils have escaped from them. Hypertrophic burn scars cover the right half of his face, and his throat is more of the same but deeper, more vicious. His eyebrow and eyelashes are missing on that side, but they are whiter than snow on the left, same as his hair.

None of us really know Silas’ background, except for maybe Arlo, but he hasn’t shared any details. This, however, sheds some light on things.

What surprises me more than anything is that he’s wearing one of Thatch’s hoodies. I can feel the remnants of the immortal’s energy in the threads. It’s a little big on the kid, the hems on the sleeves are tattered and worn, but it fits him in a way I don’t think it could anyone else.

“It wasn’t going to get wasted, you know I eat breakfast late,” Arlo says, taking his plate.

“It’s good manners to eat when someone’s cooked for you,” Felix quietly adds, curled up on the other side of Arlo, his knees drawn up to his chest.

“Couldn’t have said it better myself.” Michael sits down on the little couch like he owns the place, on the end closest to Felix. The two couches form an L of sorts, sharing a long slab of wood which serves as an industrial style coffee table.

Quentin gives me a quick, chastised grin before sitting down beside Michael, pulling me down with him. Reluctantly, and with a little frown that I adore, Quentin releases my hand. He offers me my plate before taking his own. While his are drowned in syrup, my own are thoroughly buttered and dusted with a hint of powdered sugar. Arlo’s are smeared with butter and peanut butter, a dripping mess.

I bite back a little smile, glancing over at Michael. He winks at me, then goes back to eating his own breakfast. Or snack, more like. Michael dutifully eats oatmeal and fruit every morning, well before I’m even awake. He points a forkful at Silas and asks, “Where’d you learn to cook like this?”

Silas shrugs, staring resolutely at his plate. “Dunno. Experimented a lot with what there was in the cupboards. When I was younger.”

“Think you’ll make a career out of it?”

Silas lifts a shoulder again. “I don’t think so.”

“Fair enough,” Michael says, and the conversation rolls further into something like normalcy.

We talk about small things.

The glittery remnants of the previous day which hide in every nook and cranny of the house, something Arlo will be cleaning for months. Quentin’s knee presses against mine.

Bosko’s bad habit of bringing dead mice inside. My traitorous hair falls down in the small space between his elbow and mine, which bump and collide as we eat.

Felix’s desire to start a garden in the spring, he wants to be able to personally stock Arlo’s new hedge kitchen. Quentin has a cold, he sniffles and steals air through his mouth between bites.

I set my plate down and lean back as far as my wings will allow. Carefully, and ever so slowly, I rest my hand above the small of his back and below his shoulder blades. Neutral ground. His muscles tense under my fingers as they fan out, then relax when my palm settles against his spine.

 Both kids tease Quentin about his travel chalk, which he used on the new board in the kitchen. We skip around the Big Things. Arlo and I talked for a long time before I came over. In between assuring me that Quentin was safe, he filled me in on last night’s events. The roles everyone is to play. Quentin’s revelation about Felix, and Archeon.

Lastly, he asked for advice about inviting unregistered witches into his home.

I told him every witch off the streets was one less that Leon could steal, torture, and twist. I also told him if he wouldn’t do it, I would. I would break the rules, and invite witches into Adrastus Manor. Tobias’s quick agreement made me feel even more secure about my decision.

I was never taken. I was never targeted. But my people were. The day Arlo and I met was not a happy one. I knew of him, saw him on the news. But we never actually met, not until he won and found the lost witches. Or what remained of them, that is. Twenty-six of them were demons, and fifty-nine were angels, Tobias among them. Fifty-nine.

I failed the celestials of Levena. The witches. I had the room. I could’ve sheltered them. Protected them. And I didn’t, because I played it safe, and followed the rules. I listened to my aunt. Witches were deemed dangerous. Unstable. It was a risk we couldn’t take. We did what we could, but it wasn’t enough. To this day, there has never been a witch in Adrastus Manor.

There has never been a witch in Adrastus Manor.

And now I’m about to introduce witches onto its grounds, dozens of them at least. For the first time, I wonder what kind of trouble I’m brewing. Then again, change doesn’t come quietly, does it?

Arlo walks me to the door. The ice storm has given way to blinding sun, which makes everything glitter and glisten. Quentin and Michael are already outside, saying their goodbyes to each other. I watch them, lost in my thoughts. Michael gestures wildly and Quentin laughs, throwing his head back. Air catches in my lungs, and I’m reminded of the ghost of his knee against mine.

Arlo rests a hand on my shoulder. I look up at him, and he stares down at me. A moment passes, quiet and full of something just out of reach. Measuring each word like a grain of sand, he says, “He needs you.”

“I—”

“Elochian, I need you to be the demon he needs you to be, or else—” Arlo’s hand falls from my shoulder when he glances at Quentin and Michael, who are watching us now. He shakes his head, and gives me a half-smile. The look in his eyes betrays it, though. “Go on. We’ll talk later.”

I stare at the man for a second, then shuffle closer.

He raises a brow, thrown off guard.

Unfettered, I pull him into a hug.

It’s awkward at first, then his arms wrap around my shoulders, above my wings, and he holds me tight. He laughs a little. “I think this is the first time we’ve done this.”

“Quiet. You’re ruining the moment.” I squeeze around his middle. “We hugged the day after you came home from the hospital.”

“Oh. Right.”

He holds me just a little bit tighter, and we stay that way for a long minute. Then I let him go, and he waves halfheartedly to Michael before shutting himself inside the house. When I join them, Quentin asks, “What was that about?”

“Nothing.”

Quentin and Michael exchange a look.

I groan. “He’s stressed out. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do when people are upset? Give them hugs?”

“That’s what most people do,” Michael says, leaving the, ‘and you’re a weirdo who doesn’t do hugs,’ unsaid.

“Well, there you go.”

Quentin smiles. “I’m sure it made him feel better. We did have a long night, we stayed up late doing some investigating. Finnegan has some good leads in the North End, there’s a cluster of disappearances on the outskirts of the End, near Vieta Road.”

“Finnegan was here? Late?”

“Because that was the point of that statement,” Michael mutters.

Quentin frowns. “Yeah. Him and Arlo are pretty buddy-buddy, apparently.”

“Double jealous,” Michael adds, and we both glare at him. He laughs. “And this is when I say goodbye. Quentin, lovely to see you again.”

Michael takes off in the direction of the landbridge before either of us can scold him. I sigh, rubbing my temple. “I’m sorry about him.”

Quentin chuckles. “It’s fine. So …” He nudges a loose clump of snow with his boot. His hair falls over his eyes, and his cheeks are flushed against the cold. I swallow the fear rising in my throat, and reach for him.